^^^••^•••^^•^•^^^^•••••^••^^^•^^^^•••••••^•••^••••••^^^•^^•^•^^^^ 

I  am  a  herttdge  because  I 
bring  you  years  of  tboupbt 
crA  tbe  lore  of  time  *~~ 
I  impart  yet  I  can  Dot  5peal<^ 
I  have  traveled  amor^  tbe 
peoples  o^  tbe  eartb 
am  a  rover 


of  tbe  or?s  u;bo  loves  and 
cberlsbes  n9e-o;bo 
n9looeo  n?e  a;  her?  I  an? 

you/tnd 
please  send 


brothers  -on  tbe  book- 
shelves  of  .........  .  ____ 

P  SANTELL 


X^s, 


v   x^, » 

'  *C 


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THE  WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

VAILIMA  EDITION 

THIS  EDITION,  PRINTED  FROM  TYPE  WHICH  HAS  BEEN 
DISTRIBUTED,  IS  STRICTLY  LIMITED  TO  ONE  THOUSAND 
AND  THIRTY  SETS  FOR  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA, 
OF  WHICH  ONE  THOUSAND  ARE  FOR  SALE  AND  THIRTY 
ARE  FOR  PRESENTATION 

THJS  IS  NO. 


THE  EDITION  FOR  GREAT  BRITAIN  AND  IRELAND  IS 
LIMITED  TO  ONE  THOUSAND  AND  SIXTY  SETS,  OF  WHICH 
ONE  THOUSAND  ARE  FOR  SALE  AND  SIXTY  ARE  FOR 
PRESENTATION. 


L. 


THE  WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

VAILIMA  EDITION 

VOLUME  I 


ROBERT     LOUIS     STEVEN SOX 
AGE    XINETKEN 


AN    INLAND    VOYAGE 

TRAVELS   WITH    A   DONKEY 

EDINBURGH  :  PICTURESQUE 

NOTES 

BY 
ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
LONDON  :  WILLIAM  HEINEMANN: 
IN  ASSOCIATION  WITH  CHATTO  AND  WINDUS: 
CASSELL  AND  COMPANY  LIMITED:  AND 
LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  COMPANY. 
MCMXXI 


Copyright,  1905,  1911,  by 
Charles  Scribner't  Sont 


Printed  at  the  Country  Life  Press 
Garden  City,  N«v  York,  U.  S.  A. 


Stack 
Annex 


PAGE 


CONTENTS 
VOLUME  I 

INTRODUCTION  BY  LLOYD  OSBOURNE  ix 

AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 3 

TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY       ....  179 

EDINBURGH:  PICTURESQUE  NOTES      .     .  365 


A  page  from  the  Journal  for 
Travels  with  a  Donkey 


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A  pa^e  from  the  Journal  lor 
Travel*  with  a  Donkey 


INTRODUCTION 

N  February,  1876,  we  were  living 
in  Paris,  a  little  family  of  four — 
my  mother,  my  sister  Isobel, 
whom  I  considered  as  "grown- 
up," though  she  was  but  a  few 
years  older  than  myself,  my 
brother  Hervey,  and  I.  I  was  eight ;  Hervey,  a 
lovely  little  fellow  with  long  golden  curls,  was 
five.  We  were  miserably  poor;  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  was  always  hungry ;  I  can  remember  yet 
how  I  used  to  glue  myself  to  the  bakers'  windows 
and  stare  longingly  at  the  bread  within.  Then 
my  little  brother  fell  ill  of  a  lingering  and  baffling 
ailment ;  nobody  knew  what  was  the  matter  with 
him;  for  weeks  he  lay  dying  while  my  mother 
pawned  her  trinkets  to  buy  him  delicacies  and 
toys.  Even  after  all  these  years  the  memory 
of  that  ebbing  little  life  recurs  to  me  with  an 
intolerable  pathos  —  the  wasted  baby  hands, 
the  burning  eyes,  the  untouched  toys,  the  un- 
tasted  hothouse  grapes  lying  on  the  counter- 
pane. Then  he  died,  and  we  followed  him  to 
Pere  Lachaise  where  we  could  only  afford  one  of 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

those  temporary  French  graves,  surely  the  cruel- 
est  in  the  world,  from  which  the  bones  are  flung 
into  the  catacombs  at  the  expiration  of  five  years. 

All  this  had  told  on  me.  The  doctor  said, 
with  a  gravity  that  thrilled  me  with  a  sense  of 
self-importance:  "Madame,  it  is  essential  that 
you  should  take  this  child  to  the  country.  He 
is  in  a  serious  nervous  condition,  and  if  you  do 
not  take  him  to  the  country  at  once  I  cannot 
answer  for  the  consequences." 

A  friendly  art-student  was  called  into  con- 
sultation, a  young  American  with  an  immense 
black  beard  and  a  voice  that  sounded  strangely 
booming  in  our  silent  and  stricken  household, 
who  advised  my  mother  to  try  Grez — a  delight- 
ful old  village  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau,  and  distant  some  fifty  or  sixty  miles 
from  Paris.  He  praised  the  comfortable  old 
inn;  described  its  secluded  garden  running  down 
to  the  river;  spoke  of  his  own  eagerness  to  return 
to  this  charming  and  tranquil  country  which 

was  as  yet  unspoiled.  But !  A  shiver  of 

uneasiness  passed  through  us.  The  booming 
young  man  hesitated  and  looked  embarrassed. 
Had  he  indicated  this  paradise  only  to  snatch 
it  away  again?  It  appeared  that  the  old  inn 
was  monopolized  all  summer  by  a  number  of 
wild  artists  and  bohemians,  who  might  resent 
the  intrusion  of — of  a  lady  with  children.  My 
mother,  indeed,  had  to  take  the  risk  of  its  being 
made  "impossible"  for  her.  The  booming 


INTRODUCTION 

young  man  looked  much  concerned  and  spoke 
apprehensively  of  the  "two  Stevensons."  The 
"two  Stevensons"  were  the  ring-leaders  in 
everything.  Nobody  who  failed  to  please  the 
"two  Stevensons"  could  possibly  stay  in  Grez. 
That  was  the  risk  we  had  to  face  later  on 
when  the  inn  should  fill  for  the  summer — that 
the  "two  Stevensons"  might  force  us  to  leave. 

The  "two  Stevensons"  were  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  and  his  cousin,  Robert  Alan  Mowbray 
Stevenson. 

We  went  to  Grez,  which  was  even  more  at- 
tractive than  it  had  been  described  to  us,  and 
spent  what  was  to  me  the  three  happiest  weeks 
of  my  childhood.  Not  only  were  there  the 
ample  meals,  the  boating  and  fishing  on  the 
river,  the  innkeeper's  little  boys  to  play  with, 
and  long,  interesting  rambles,  but  I  was  ex- 
quisitely conscious  also  of  my  mother's  tender- 
ness and  of  the  growing  consolation  she  found 
in  me.  It  was  so  early  in  the  season  that  we  had 
the  inn  all  to  ourselves,  though  always  in  our 
minds  was  a  vision  of  those  dreadful  Stevensons 
returning  to  drive  us  forth.  My  little  heart 
was  filled  to  bursting  at  such  injustice.  We, 
as  a  family,  seemed  so  harmless,  so  sad  in  our 
bereavement,  so  worthy  indeed  of  the  consid- 
eration the  kindly  village  people  gave  us,  yet 
these  tyrants  had  somehow  the  power  to  say  to 
us :  "  Grez  is  ours.  Get  out ! ' ' 

We  went  back  to  Paris;  presumably  our 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

apartment  was  given  up  and  our  odds  and  ends 
of  furniture  placed  in  storage ;  I  remember  noth- 
ing but  a  visit  to  Pere  Lachaise,  and  of  our 
standing  forlornly  in  the  rain  beside  Hervey's 
grave.  Then  somehow — I  forget  the  inter- 
vening details — we  were  again  in  Grez,  with  the 
weather  becoming  warmer  every  day  and  the 
dreadful  Stevensons  more  imminent.  Some  of 
the  artists  had  already  arrived,  amiable  young 
fellows  who  painted  in  the  fields  under  pro- 
digious white  umbrellas,  and  who  seemed  to 
find  nothing  especially  affronting  in  the  presence 
of  my  very  pretty  mother  and  very  pretty  sister. 
At  last,  and  the  scene  is  as  clear  to  me  as 
though  it  had  happened  yesterday,  I  can  recall 
my  mother  and  myself  gazing  down  from  our 
bedroom  window  at  Isobel,  who  was  speaking 
in  the  court  below  to  the  first  of  the  arriving 
Stevensons — "Bob"  Stevenson  as  he  was  al- 
ways called — a  dark,  roughly  dressed  man  as 
lithe  and  graceful  as  a  Mexican  vaquero  and 
evoking  something  of  the  same  misgiving.  He 
smiled  pleasantly,  hat  in  hand,  with  a  mocking 
expression  that  I  learned  afterwards  was  habit- 
ual with  him,  and  which  reminded  me  of  the 
wolf  in  Little  Red  Riding  Hood.  I  suffocated 
with  terror  and  suspense.  In  my  innocence  I 
thought  he  might  suddenly  strike  Isobel.  When 
my  sister  turned  away,  still  unharmed,  I  felt  an 
unspeakable  relief.  Then  she  ran  up  to  our 
room,  laughing  with  excitement,  to  tell  us  that 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

"Bob "was  a  most  agreeable  and  entertaining 
man,  who  was  much  amused  at  the  way  he  had 
been  misrepresented  to  us.  In  fact,  he  had  been 
most  deferential  to  her,  and  my  sister's  eyes 
were  shining  at  the  obvious  impression  she  had 
made. 

With  "Bob"  on  our  side — and  he  soon  became 
very  much  a  friend — all  our  trepidations  sub- 
sided, and  a  curious  reversal  took  place  in  our 
attitude  towards  that  other  Stevenson,  that 
unknown  "Louis"  as  every  one  called  him. 

Louis,  it  seemed,  was  everybody's  hero; 
Louis  was  the  most  wonderful  and  inspiring 
of  men;  his  wit,  his  sayings,  his  whole  piquant 
attitude  towards  life  were  unending  subjects  of 
conversation.  Everybody  said :  "  Wait  till  Louis 
gets  here,"  with  an  eager  and  expectant  air. 

All  my  previous  fear  of  him  had  disappeared, 
and  in  its  place  was  a  sort  of  worshipping  awe. 
He  had  become  my  hero,  too,  this  wonderful 
Louis  Stevenson,  who  was  so  picturesquely 
gliding  towards  Grez  in  a  little  sailing  canoe, 
and  who  camped  out  every  night  in  a  tent.  How 
I  longed  for  his  coming  and  yet  how  I  dreaded 
it!  Such  a  glorious  being  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  notice  a  little  boy — even  a  worship- 
ping little  boy.  How  often  I  wished  I  had 
Hervey's  golden  hair  and  angelic  beauty;  how 
I  wished  my  mother  had  a  bright  blue  velvet 
dress  such  as  I  had  seen  women  wear  in  Paris! 
"Louis"  would  give  but  one  look  at  us  and  then 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

turn  away.  What  interest  could  we  have  to  a 
person  who  travelled  everywhere  in  a  sailing 
canoe,  and  whose  life  was  a  succession  of  the 
most  thrilling  episodes? 

Then  in  the  dusk  of  a  summer's  day  as  we  all 
sat  at  dinner  about  the  long  table  d'hote,  some 
sixteen  or  eighteen  people,  of  whom  my  mother 
and  sister  were  the  only  women  and  I  the  only 
child,  there  was  a  startling  sound  at  one  of  the 
open  windows  giving  on  the  street,  and  in 
vaulted  a  young  man  with  a  dusty  knapsack 
on  his  back.  The  whole  company  rose  in  an 
uproar  of  delight,  mobbing  the  newcomer  with 
outstretched  hands  and  cries  of  greeting.  He 
was  borne  to  a  chair;  was  made  to  sit  down  in 
state,  and  still  laughing  and  talking  in  the  gen- 
eral hubbub  was  introduced  to  my  mother  and 
sister. 

"My  cousin,  Mr.  Stevenson,"  said  Bob,  and 
there  ensued  a  grave  inclination  of  heads,  while 
I  wriggled  on  my  chair  very  much  overcome  and 
shyly  stole  peeps  at  the  stranger.  He  was  tall, 
straight,  and  well-formed,  with  a  fine  ruddy  com- 
plexion, clustering  light-brown  hair,  a  small 
tawny  moustache  and  extraordinarily  brilliant 
brown  eyes.  But  these  details  convey  nothing 
of  the  peculiar  sense  of  power  that  seemed  to 
radiate  from  him — of  a  peculiar  intensity  of 
character  that  witile  not  exactly  dominating  had 
in  its  quality  something  infinitely  more  subtle 
and  winning;  and  he  was  besides,  so  gay,  so 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

sparkling,  so  easily  the  master  in  all  exchange  of 
talk  and  raillery  that  I  gazed  at  him  in  spell- 
bound admiration. 

How  incredible  it  would  have  seemed  to  me 
then  had  some  prophetic  voice  told  me  that 
this  stranger's  life  and  mine  were  to  run  together 
for  nineteen  years  to  come;  that  I  was  destined 
to  become  his  step-son,  his  comrade,  the  sharer 
of  all  his  wanderings;  that  we  were  to  write 
books  together;  that  we  were  to  sail  far-off 
seas;  that  we  were  to  hew  a  home  out  of  the 
tropic  wilderness;  and  that  at  the  end,  while 
the  whole  world  mourned,  I  was  to  lay  his  body 
at  rest  on  a  mountain  peak  in  Oceana. 

In  some  ways  Stevenson's  ill-health  has  been 
misunderstood.  When  one  reflects  on  his  ter- 
rible disabilities,  I  would  say  that  he  suffered 
less  than  is  generally  believed.  The  truly  dread- 
ful part  of  his  life  was  the  uncertainty  of  its 
tenure;  the  imminence  always  of  a  sudden  death. 
He  would  put  a  handkerchief  to  his  lips,  perceive 
a  crimson  stain,  and  then  sooner  or  later  there 
might  be  a  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs,  with  all  its 
horror  and  suspense,  and  its  subsequent  and 
unutterably  dejecting  aftermath  of  having  to 
lie  immovable  for  days  and  nights  on  end.  The 
mental  agony  was  beyond  expression;  one  won- 
ders how  he  ever  bore  up  against  it;  but  the 
actual  spells  of  illness  were  not  extremely 
painful,  nor  were  they  as  a  rule  very  long  con- 

xv 


INTRODUCTION 

tinued.  The  intervals  between  these  hemor- 
rhages lasted  many  months,  and  during  these 
periods,  except  for  the  irksomeness  of  a  con- 
fined life  and  the  enforced  separation  from  friends 
(whose  rare  visits  tended  to  excite  him  and 
diminish  his  nervous  force),  he  was  on  the 
whole  exceedingly  happy,  and  undisturbed  by 
physical  ills.  His  preoccupation  for  writing 
was  so  intense  that  in  many  ways  he  enjoyed 
this  aloofness  from  the  world.  His  time  was 
not  intruded  on  by  a  multitude  of  petty  cares 
and  petty  engagements;  he  could  read  and  write 
and  think — in  peace;  he  could  let  himself  live  in 
his  stories  without  any  jarring  interruption. 

It  was  to  this  imprisoned  life  of  Stevenson's 
that  I  owe  the  dearest  of  my  memories,  and  much, 
I  suppose,  of  my  character  and  cast  of  mind.  We 
were  thrown  into  the  most  intimate  relation, 
and  for  the  lack  of  any  other  outlet  on  his  part 
I  had  an  undue  share  in  his  companionship  and 
thoughts.  In  a  little  family  of  three,  leading 
an  existence  of  extraordinary  isolation,  I  as- 
sumed a  disproportionate  importance.  Steven- 
son was  in  the  position  of  a  prisoner  who  makes 
friends  with  a  mouse — and  I  was  the  mouse. 
I  had,  too,  an  understanding  beyond  my  years; 
or  rather,  I  suppose,  that  in  such  a  mental 
forcing-house  a  certain  precocity  was  inevitable. 
He  shared  enthusiastically  in  all  my  games — tin 
soldiers,  marbles,  chess,  drafts,  and  others  even 
more  interesting  that  he  invented  for  our  joint 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION 

amusement — especially  a  mimic  war-game  that 
required  hundreds  of  tin  soldiers,  the  whole  attic 
floor  to  play  it  on,  and  weeks  of  time.  We 
were  partners  in  my  little  printing-press;  he 
wrote  verses  and  engraved  blocks  for  the  minia- 
ture books  I  printed  and  sold;  he  painted  scen- 
ery for  my  toy  theatre  and  we  gave  perform- 
ances with  my  mother  as  the  only  audience. 
All  our  spare  time  was  passed  together. 

I  commented  on  his  work  when  he  read  it 
aloud,  and  was  encouraged  to  criticise  it.  In 
general  I  thought  it  was  beautifully  written,  but 
lacking  in  interest.  I  was  always  plaguing 
him  to  write  something  "interesting,"  and 
finally  to  please  me  he  wrote  Treasure  Island. 
We  always  discussed  the  books  I  read  so  indis- 
criminately— no  books  were  ever  withheld  from 
me,  not  even  Flaubert's,  Fielding's,  or  Smollett's 
— and  he  would  be  led  into  long  and  fascinating 
talks  about  them  and  the  lives  of  their  authors. 
His  idea  was  that  young  people  should  be  im- 
perceptibly prepared  for  the  realities  of  life ;  for 
the  temptations,  disloyalties,  and  treacheries  that 
would  infallibly  encompass  them  later;  that  they 
should  go  forth  at  adolescence  not  unprepared 
for  evil  nor  in  too  great  an  ignorance  of  it;  that 
they  should  have  some  glimmering  of  the  pitfalls 
of  sex  and  of  the  injustice  and  pitilessness  of  the 
world.  Hence  the  freedom  I  had  in  reading, 
and  the  encouragement  to  talk  and  ask  questions 
about  everything. 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION 

Stevenson  hated  materialism.  He  judged  it 
to  be  the  supreme  danger  and  curse  of  our  civili- 
sation— that  comfortable,  well-fed,  self-compla- 
cent materialism  against  which  he  was  always 
railing.  No  Socialist  ever  used  the  word  "bour- 
geoisie" with  more  contempt  than  he.  He 
thought  that  the  lower  classes  and  the  higher 
could  alike  be  fired  by  high  ideals,  but  that  the 
mass  of  the  middle  class  was  almost  hopelessly 
antagonistic  to  human  advancement.  Its  un- 
reasoning self-satisfaction,  its  exploitation  of 
the  helpless,  its  hypocritical  morality,  its  op- 
pression of  women,  its  intolerable  attitude 
towards  art  and  literature,  were  all  to  him  a 
series  of  inexcusable  offenses. 

It  is  strange  how  many  of  Stevenson's  strong- 
est opinions  failed  to  find  any  expression  in  his 
books.  He  was  emphatically  what  we  would 
call  to-day  a  "feminist."  Women  seemed  to 
him  the  victims  alike  of  man  and  nature.  He 
often  spoke  of  the  chastity  enforced  on  them 
under  pain  of  starvation;  he  often  said  there 
would  be  no  children  had  men  been  destined  to 
bear  them  and  that  marriage  itself  would  dis- 
appear. What  man,  he  asked  besides,  would 
ever  have  the  courage  of  a  woman  of  the  streets? 
In  those  days  of  large  families  the  accepted 
right  of  men  to  breed  their  wives  till  they  died 
filled  him  with  loathing.  He  spoke  of  instances 
amongst  his  own  Edinburgh  acquaintance — one 
of  them  an  important  judge  and  a  pillar  of  the 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION 

church — and  said  that  "his  gorge  rose"  at  sitting 
at  the  same  table  with  him.  "  He  killed  his  first 
wife,  and  is  now  killing  his  second,  damn  him!" 

The  obligation  for  women  to  be  attractive 
at  any  age  and  in  any  circumstances  appeared 
to  him  also  as  not  the  least  of  their  many  dis- 
abilities. I  remember  his  saying:  "My  God, 
Lloyd,  think  of  all  those  poor  old  slab-sided, 
broken-backed  frumps  having  to  stick  flowers 
in  their  hats  and  go  through  with  the  horrible 
affectation  of  pretending  to  be  desirable!" 

Yet  very  little,  if  anything,  of  this  ever  got 
into  his  books. 

It  was  the  same  with  social  reform.  Both 
on  this  subject  and  his  views  about  women, 
Stevenson  was  far  ahead  of  his  times — so  far 
ahead,  indeed,  that  I  imagine  he  thought  there 
was  no  audience  for  such  opinions.  The  Vic- 
torian era,  superficially  at  least,  appeared  set  in 
an  unalterable  mould;  nothing  seemed  ever 
destined  to  change.  It  was  as  idle  to  rage  as 
though  one  were  buried  in  a  dungeon.  There 
was  apparently  a  universal  acquiescence  in 
things  as  they  were.  I  doubt  not  that  Steven- 
son turned  to  romance  with  an  immense  relief. 
Here  he  could  escape  from  those  voices  crying  to 
him  out  of  the  darkness;  from  the  thought, 
always  so  persistent,  that  a  comparative  handful 
of  mankind  were  keeping  fellow  millions  in  a 
state  of  poverty,  ignorance,  and  subjection. 

Tolstoy  had  a  profound  influence  over  him 
xix 


INTRODUCTION 

and  did  much  to  formulate  his  vague  and  some- 
times contradictory  views.  Tolstoy  virtually 
rediscovered  Christianity  as  a  stupendous  force 
in  the  world;  not  the  Christianity  of  dogma, 
supernaturalism,  hell,  and  heaven,  but  as  a 
sublime  ethical  formula  that  alone  could  redeem 
society.  Stevenson  in  this  sense  was  an  ardent 
Christian.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  say : 
"Christ  was  always  such  a  great  gentleman; 
you  can  always  count  on  his  doing  the  right 
thing,"  and  he  used  to  instance  the  marriage- 
feast  at  Cana  with  a  special  pleasure.  "What  a 
charming  courtesy  to  these  poor  people — to 
help  their  entertainment  with  a  better  wine!" 

Yet  in  the  accepted  religious  meaning  Steven- 
son was  wholly  an  unbehever.  He  wanted  "no 
pass-book  to  heaven  with  the  items  entered 
regularly  by  an  administrative  angel."  Certain 
phases  of  emotional  Christianity  struck  him, 
indeed,  as  abominably  egoistical  and  selfish. 

9f  O 

"Think  a  little  more  of  other  people's  souls  and 
less  of  your  own,"  he  said  once  to  an  anxiously 
confiding  lady.  "I  am  sure  Christ  never  in- 
tended you  to  concentrate  ah1  your  thoughts  on 
yourself." 

Stevenson's  Christianity  exposed  him  to  many 
charges  of  contradiction.  The  unbehever,  who 
in  Samoa  went  to  church,  taught  in  a  Sunday 
school,  and  had  prayers  daily  in  his  household, 
could  not  escape  some  caustic  criticism;  nor 
could  the  essayist,  who  by  implication,  at  least, 

xx 


INTRODUCTION 

seemed  at  times  almost  conventionally  religious. 
The  truth  was  he  thought  the  multitude  unable 
to  grasp  his  own  lofty  faith;  thought  that  it 
needed  supernaturalism,  ritual,  and  sensuous  im- 
pressions to  stir  the  little  ideality  it  possessed. 
As  opposed  to  materialism,  Stevenson  infinitely 
preferred  denominational  religion  so  long  as 
it  retained  the  least  spark  of  sincerity.  In  a 
half-civilised  country  like  Samoa  whose  people 
were  just  beginning  to  emerge  from  primitive 
superstition,  it  seemed  to  him  essential  to  sup- 
port the  native  churches — Congregational,  Wes- 
leyan,  and  Roman  Catholic — by  an  active 
concurrence ;  and  in  this  connection  it  must  be 
confessed  that  Stevenson  had  an  illogical  sort  of 
inherited  love  for  religious  forms  and  ceremonies. 
He  could  roll  out  the  word  "God"  with  an  in- 
describable conviction,  and  nothing  pleased  him 
more  than  to  read  his  own  prayers  aloud  and 
endow  them  with  the  glamour  of  his  extraor- 
dinarily affecting  voice. 

He  liked  too — best  of  all,  I  think — the  beauti- 
ful and  touchingly  patriarchal  aspect  of  family 
devotions ;  the  gathering  of  the  big,  hushed  house- 
hold preparatory  to  the  work  of  the  day,  and 
the  feeling  of  unity  and  fellowship  thus  engen- 
dered. It  was  certainly  a  picturesque  assembly — 
Stevenson  in  imposing  state  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  I  at  his  right  with  the  Samoan  Bible'^be- 
fore  me,  ready  to  follow  him  with  a  chapter  in 
the  native  language,  the  rest  of  the  family  about 

xxi 


INTRODUCTION 

us,  and  in  front  the  long  row  of  half-naked  Samo- 
ans,with  their  proud  free  air  and  glistening  bodies. 
We  were  the  Sa  Tusitala,  the  Clan  of  Steven- 
son, and  this  was  the  daily  enunciation  of  our 
solidarity. 

Stevenson's  peculiar  clothes  and  long  unkempt 
hair  have  often  been  regarded  as  affectations. 
The  truth,  however,  throws  rather  a  pathetic 
light  on  these  supposed  idiosyncrasies.  It  must 
be  recalled  that  his  literary  earnings  at  the 
start  were  so  scanty  that  he  was  forced,  much 
against  his  will,  to  live  with  his  family  in  Edin- 
burgh; and  that  his  rare  cheques  represented 
just  so  much  freedom  from  the  deadening  life 
at  home.  The  longer  he  could  spin  out  his 
money,  the  longer  he  could  remain  away  from 
Edinburgh.  Like  many  another  poor  young 
man  he  wore  flannel  shirts  to  save  washing  and 
economised  on  his  clothes  till  they  were  wretch- 
edly shabby.  Such  a  reduced  wardrobe  was 
saving,  too,  in  tips  and  cabs,  for  he  could  carry 
all  he  had  in  the  world  in  a  small  valise;  and 
there  was  the  added  advantage  that  he  could 
lodge  in  the  cheapest  quarters  without  exciting 
remark.  It  can  be  imagined  what  a  singular 
figure  he  cut  in  conventional  London  drawing- 
rooms  and  clubs,  and  how  naturally  and  smil- 
ingly he  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  and  hid  the 
humiliating  truth. 

In  his  later  years  of  chronic  invalidism  clothes 
xxii 


INTRODUCTION 

ceased  to  have  much  meaning  for  him.  A 
very  sick  man  falls  imperceptibly  into  slip-shod 
ways,  though  it  is  worth  noting  that  Stevenson 
shaved  daily,  when  not  too  ill,  and  could  never 
be  induced  to  wear  slippers.  "I  want  to  die 
with  my  boots  on,"  he  would  say,  with  a  grimly 
humorous  obstinacy,  and  got  a  queer  kind  of 
satisfaction  in  thus  thwarting  doctors  and  nurses. 
For  months  at  a  time  he  was  not  even  permitted 
to  wear  a  coat  lest  the  raising  of  his  arms  should 
bring  on  a  hemorrhage.  Whenever  he  had  his  hair 
cut  it  was  at  the  risk  of  taking  cold;  and  a  cold 
to  him  meant  the  reappearance  of  that  crimson 
stain,  with  all  its  tragic  apprehension  and  pro- 
hibitions. It  was  in  such  circumstances  that 
Sargent  painted  him  twice;  that  St.  Gaudens 
made  his  famous  bas-relief;  that  so  many 
sketches  and  photographs  were  made  of  him  in 
various  cloaks  and  shawls. 

Instead  of  crying  out  "affectation,"  one 
ought  rather  to  marvel  that  a  man  thus  handi- 
capped by  disease  and  living  under  the  per- 
petual shadow  of  death,  could  have  had  the 
courage  to  continue  writing  at  all  and  enrich  the 
world  with  such  noble  and  inspiring  gifts;  and 
when  it  is  remembered  that  he  never  laid  down 
his  pen  but  it  was  perhaps  for  the  last  time,  and 
that  his  life,  as  he  said  himself,  was  "due  to  a 
series  of  miracles,"  the  long  hair  and  strange 
garb  take  on  a  not  unheroic  aspect,  and  one 
shrinks  at  hearing  them  ridiculed. 

xxiii 


INTRODUCTION 

In  Samoa  his  hair  was  gradually  shorn  to 
something  like  the  conventional  length,  and 
he  began  to  take  an  interest  in  dressing  well. 
The  local  fashion  in  men's  evening  costume  was 
pleasantly  flamboyant — a  short,  white  drill 
jacket  of  a  close-fitting  and  military  cut,  wide 
silk  sash,  ordinary  black  evening  trousers  and 
patent-leather  shoes — a  mode  that  had  somehow 
reached  Samoa  from  the  Far  East,  and  which 
conformed  in  a  civilian  sort  of  way  to  the  uni- 
forms of  the  British  Naval  officers,  who  occasion- 
ally came  our  way.  Stevenson  looked  very  well 
in  this  picturesque  attire,  and  never  better,  in- 
deed, than  at  the  head  of  his  own  big  table  in 
Vailima. 

On  his  day-time  visits  to  Apia,  Stevenson  usu- 
ally wore  a  coat  and  riding-breeches  of  what 
were  called  "Bedford  cord,"  with  high-laced 
tan  boots  and  spurs.  This  "cord"  was  a  very 
fine,  light-weight  whipcord,  and  suits  of  it 
were  made  for  Stevenson  by  one  of  the  best 
Sydney  tailors.  He  was  very  particular,  too, 
about  his  boots,  which  were  also  made  to  order 
in  Australia,  and  fitted  his  long,  slender,  aristo- 
cratic feet  to  perfection.  At  home  he  ordinarily 
dressed  in  white  trousers,  white  shirt,  and  low 
shoes  to  match,  though  like  everybody  else  in 
that  hot,  sticky  climate,  he  went  barefooted 
about  the  house.  Even  our  highest  European 
dignitaries  were  apt  to  scurry  for  their  shoes  and 
socks  when  callers  were  unexpectedly  announced. 

xxiv 


INTRODUCTION 

It  was  all  part  of  that  delightful  "fciasamoa" 
which  meant  following  the  custom  of  the  coun- 
try, and  condoned  in  one  disarming  word  almost 
everything — from  lack  of  shoes  to  lack  of 
marriage  certificates. 

After  years  of  virtual  imprisonment  it  was 
inspiriting  to  Stevenson  to  lead  a  normal  kind  of 
life;  to  come  and  go  at  will,  to  ride,  to  meet  as 
many  people  as  he  wished,  to  give  and  accept  a 
generous  and  easy-going  hospitality,  and  to 
join  without  restraint  in  all  the  social  distractions 
of  our  little  town;  and  with  this  return  to  a 
normal  life  there  came  inevitably,  of  course, 
normal  clothes. 

Stevenson  had  a  great  faculty  for  ingratiation, 
which  he  used  without  stint  to  extort  the  con- 
fidence and  intimacy  of  any  one  he  liked.  He 
had  all  of  a  novelist's  insatiable  desire  to  strip 
away  the  intervening  veils  that  hide  the  human 
heart.  The  proof  of  this  abounds  in  his  letters, 
which  reflect  with  an  astonishing  sensitiveness 
the  person  whom  he  is  addressing,  and  whose 
regard  he  is  tacitly  courting.  He  conjures  up  a 
picture  of  his  unknown  correspondent,  and 
indicates  by  implication  something  of  the  lat- 
ter's  character  and  calibre.  It  will  be  noticed 
that  he  is  always  willing  to  soften  his  own  opin- 
ions in  order  to  find  some  common  ground  of 
agreement,  and  there  runs  through  his  corre- 
spondence an  unfailing  and  eager  desire  to  please. 

xxv 


INTRODUCTION 

His  letters  thus  mirror  his  correspondents; 
mirror  them  flatteringly  yet  with  skill  and  truth. 
That  the  effect  was  largely  unconscious  makes  it 
the  more  interesting,  and  it  is  in  no  little  degree 
to  this  quality  that  his  letters  owe  their  enduring 
charm. 

France  had  a  profound  influence  over  Steven- 
son; mentally  he  was  half  a  Frenchman;  in 
taste,  habits,  and  prepossessions  he  was  almost 
wholly  French.  Not  only  did  he  speak  French 
admirably  and  read  it  like  his  mother-tongue, 
but  he  loved  both  country  and  people,  and  was 
more  really  at  home  in  France  than  anywhere 
else.  Of  course,  like  all  Scotchmen  he  had  an 
inordinate  sentiment  for  his  native  land,  but  it 
was  particularly  a  sentiment  for  the  Scotland  of 
the  past — for  the  Scotland  of  history  and  ro- 
mance, clanging  with  arms  and  resplendent  in 
its  heroic  and  affecting  stories.  Modern  Scot- 
land had  less  appeal,  and  though  it  held  a  very 
warm  place  in  Stevenson's  heart,  he  saw  it 
always  through  that  mist  of  bygone  glory. 

What  he  praised  most  in  the  French  as  a 
national  trait  was  their  universal  indulgence 
towards  all  sexual  problems — their  clear-sighted 
understanding  and  toleration  of  everything  af- 
fecting the  relations  of  men  and  women.  He 
often  said  that  in  this  the  French  were  the  most 
civilised  people  in  Europe,  and  incomparably 
in  advance  of  all  others,  ignoring  as  compara- 

xxvi 


INTRODUCTION 

tively  unimportant  any  criticism  of  their  irri- 
tating bureaucracy,  their  lottery  bonds,  their 
grinding  octrois,  their  window-taxes,  and  so  on. 
Britain  to  his  mind  was  an  infinitely  better 
governed  country  but  with  an  intellectual  outlook 
blinkered  by  caste,  puritanism,  and  prejudice. 
He  preferred  France,  with  its  mental  and  social 
freedom;  its  frankness;  its  lack  of  hypocrisy; 
its  democratic  and  kindly  acceptance  of  life 
as  it  is.  He  often  pointed  out  that  once  French 
culture  had  taken  root  it  could  never  be  obliter- 
ated. "It  has  always  conquered  the  con- 
querors," he  said.  "  Get  it  started  and  it  becomes 
ineradicable." 

While  he  admired  Britain  from  the  angle  of 
practical  achievement,  and  that  unstintedly, 
with  all  the  pride  of  family  and  race,  he  had  a 
special  detestation  for  those  drawling,  monocled, 
supercilious  scions  of  the  English  ruling-class, 
with  their  insufferable  affectation  of  superiority 
and  their  icy  contempt  for  all  beneath  them. 
But  his  detestation  was  as  nothing  when  com- 
pared to  his  feelings  towards  Scotchmen  who 
aped  the  manners  of  such  Englishmen  and  who 
tried  to  clip  their  own  honest  Doric  and  conform 
themselves  to  this  hated  model!  It  was  a 
disloyalty  to  Scotland!  "It  was  the  pig-tail  of 
theManchu!"  On  this  subject  Stevenson  was 
always  ready  to  fall  into  a  towering  rage,  half 
humorous,  half  sincere,  and  rich  in  its  mimicry  of 
the  Anglicised  Scotchman. 

xxvii 


INTRODUCTION 

He  had  an  affectionate  respect,  however,  for 
the  veteran  British  officer  of  the  period,  with 
his  stiff,  unbending  manner  and  fine  simplicity; 
he  warmed  to  such  old  fellows  in  their  half-pay 
retirement  and  would  go  to  any  length  to  court 
them,  enduring  with  amused  humility  rebuffs 
that  from  others  would  have  offended  him  be- 
yond measure.  But  I  never  knewT  him  to  fail. 
Sooner  or  later,  the  old  major  or  colonel  or  gen- 
eral would  begin  to  soften  and  shyly  respond,  and 
I,  as  a  little  boy,  would  next  overhear  something 
like  this: 

"  Extraordinary  man,  sir — that  writing  fellow 
— that  Stevenson.  Absolutely  knows  every- 
thing that  ever  happened  anywhere.  Knows 
India  like  a  book,  sir;  knows  South  Africa; 
might  have  been  himself  in  the  Punjab  with 
Lawrence;  knows  even  the  modest  part  I  took 
myself  in  the  siege  of  Cheetahpore,  and  I  was 
greatly  gratified  to  amplify  his  knowledge  in  a 
few  particulars  and  explain  in  detail  the  whole 
campaign  in  Eastern  Oudh!" 

Once  in  Hyeres  as  Stevenson  lay  dangerously 
ill,  a  strange  English  clergyman  came  to  the  door, 
knocked  loudly,  pushed  his  wray  past  the  pro- 
testing servant  and  would  have  tramped  into  the 
sick  room  had  my  mother  not  stopped  him. 

"  I  hear  there  is  a  man  in  this  house  in  danger  of 
dying,"  he  said.  "  I  have  come  to  pray  with  him." 

The  message  was  taken  in  to  Stevenson,  who 
had  already  overheard  the  conversation. 

xxviii 


INTRODUCTION 

"Tell  him  to  come  in,"  he  whispered,  and 
then  added,  with  unquenchable  humour:  "Tell 
him  I  shall  be  glad  to  pray  myself  for  an  English 
clergyman  in  such  obvious  danger  of  living!" 

There  is  an  unconscious  pathos  in  Stevenson's 
fondness  for  his  flageolet.  He  played  it  so 
badly,  so  haltingly,  and  as  his  letters  show, 
he  was  always  poking  fun  at  himself  in  regard  to 
it.  Certainly  no  one  would  get  the  impression 
that  he  was  possessed  of  a  very  real  love  of  music 
or  that  its  deprivation  left  unanswered  one 
of  the  most  insistent  appeals  of  his  nature.  Yet 
I  believe  that  in  a  certain  sense  his  whole  life 
was  starved  in  one  of  its  essentials.  This  con- 
viction has  grown  upon  me  by  degrees,  but  I 
feel  it  strongly. 

Looking  back,  I  can  recall  how  constantly 
he  spoke  of  music.  He  would  recur  again  and 
again  to  the  dozen  or  so  operas  he  had  heard 
in  his  youth,  repeating  the  names  of  the  singers 
— all  of  them  German  mediocrities — in  a  zest  of 
recollection;  and  he  would  talk  with  the  same 
warmth  and  eagerness  of  the  few  great  instru- 
mentalists he  had  heard  in  London  concerts. 
And  it  was  always,  of  course,  with  an  air  of 
finality,  as  of  a  man  speaking  of  past  and  gone 
experiences  that  could  never  be  repeated.  He 
bought  an  extraordinary  amount  of  printed 
music — Chopin,  Grieg,  Bach,  Beethoven,  Mo- 
zart— and  would  pore  over  it  for  hours  at  a  time, 

xxix 


INTRODUCTION 

trying  here  and  there,  and  with  endless  repetitions, 
to  elucidate  it  with  his  flageolet. 

It  was  amazing  the  amount  of  pleasure  he  got 
out  of  the  effort.  The  doleful,  whining  little  in- 
strument was  one  of  his  most  precious  relaxa- 
tions. He  played  it  persistently,  and  even 
attempted  to  write  compositions  of  his  own  for  it. 
He  studied  counterpoint;  he  was  constantly  trans- 
posing, simplifying,  and  rearranging  music  to 
bring  it  within  the  scope  of  his  trumpery  "pipe  " ; 
the  most  familiar  sound  in  Vailima  was  that 
strange  wailing  and  squeaking  that  floated  down 
from  his  study.  To  us  at  the  time  it  all  seemed 
very  amusing,  and  Stevenson  laughed  as  heart- 
ily as  any  one  at  our  raillery.  But  to  me  now  it 
takes  on  a  different  aspect  and  my  eyes  are  misty 
at  the  recollection. 

At  no  time  in  his  life  had  he  ever  had  musical 
friends.  Ail  of  them  except  Henley  were  posi- 
tively indifferent  to  music.  Yet  some  humble 
little  professional  pianist,  violinist,  or  singer,  had 
Stevenson  been  fortunate  enough  to  have  had 
such  an  acquaintance,  would  have  gladdened 
and  enriched  his  life  beyond  measure.  If  only, 
indeed,  he  might  have  known  intimately  some  of 
his  own  great  musical  contemporaries — Jean  or 
Edouard  de  Reszke,  for  instance — Sarasate  or 
Paderewski !  Instead,  he  had  nothing  but  his  piti- 
ful flageolet  and  those  great  stacks  of  music  with 
no  key  to  unlock  them.  The  longing  was  there, 
the  hunger,  but  how  poor  was  the  satisfaction. 


INTRODUCTION 

To-day  when  I  see  on  every  side  those  wonder- 
ful mechanical  devices  for  the  reproductions  of 
vocal  and  instrumental  music,  I  feel  an  almost 
unbearable  regret  that  they  have  come  too  late 
for  Stevenson.  Let  superior  beings  smile,  let 
them  be  as  disdainful  as  they  wish,  but  I  am 
none  the  less  convinced  that  these  despised 
piano-players,  these  phonographs,  with  all  their 
defects,  can  bring  a  veritable  glory  of  music  to 
many  an  imprisoned  life.  What  a  difference,  for 
instance,  they  would  have  made  to  Stevenson, 
and  what  a  surpassing  joy  and  solace  they  would 
have  been  to  him. 

But  all  he  had  was  his  little  flageolet  and  the 
far-away  memories  of  his  youth. 

Stevenson's  greatest  charm,  in  a  literary  sense, 
is  the  personal  relation  he  establishes  with  the 
reader;  he  shares  with  Montaigne,  Sterne,  and 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  this  rarest  and  most  en- 
dearing of  qualities.  Once  he  comes  into  a 
household,  no  matter  how  unobtrusively,  he  is 
apt  to  stay.  He  brings  a  genial  and  comfort- 
ing presence;  he  is  helpful,  brave,  and  kindly; 
one  is  the  better  for  an  hour  passed  in  his  smiling 
company,  and  he  takes  on  in  a  very  actual  way, 
the  aspect  of  a  friend.  It  is  noteworthy  that  his 
collected  editions  sell  mostly  to  people  of  very 
moderate  means — which  is  to  say,  to  struggling 
people;  hard-working,  ill-paid  people;  people 
richer  in  cultivation  and  refinement  than  in 

xxxi 


INTRODUCTION 

money,  who  find  life  difficult  and  who  turn  to 
him  in  fellow-feeling  for  solace  and  fortitude. 
And  to  these  I  should  like  to  say  that  the  real 
man,  the  real  Stevenson,  was  no  other  than  they 
regard  him,  and  I  would  beg  them  to  dismiss 
from  their  minds  the  stories  told  to  his  disadvan- 
tage and  often  inspired  by  an  unaccountable 
malice. 

Of  course,  he  was  no  saint.  One  would  do  his 
memory  a  poor  service  by  endowing  him  with 
all  the  perfections.  His  early  life  had  been 
tempestuously  intermixed  with  those  of  many 
women,  and  I  never  heard  him  express  a  wish 
that  it  might  have  been  otherwise;  on  occasions 
he  could  swear  vociferously,  and  when  roused 
he  had  a  most  violent  temper;  he  loved  good 
wine  and  the  good  things  of  life ;  he  often  cham- 
pioned people  who  were  not  worth  championing, 
impulsively  believing  in  them,  and  getting  him- 
self, in  consequence,  in  a  false  position.  He  was 
unduly  quick  to  accept  responsibilities  or  tasks 
that  soon  grew  extremely  irksome,  and  which, 
with  a  moment's  reflection,  might  easily  have 
been  avoided.  He  gave  away  money  with  a 
royal  hand  and  often  to  arrant  imposters.  The 
most  tiresome  of  intruders  could  always  flatter 
him  by  saying:  "Mr.  Stevenson,  as  one  of  your 
admirers  I  have  taken  the  very  great  liberty  of 
seeking  your  advice,"  and  encroach  intolerably 
on  his  time  with  some  personal  and  imbecile 
perplexity. 

xxxii 


INTRODUCTION 

But  when  this  is  said  I  seem  to  come  to  the 
end.  No  human  being  was  ever  freer  from  petti- 
ness, meanness,  or  self-seeking;  none  ever  more 
high-minded  or  sincere;  and  none  surely  was 
ever  possessed  of  a  greater  indulgence  towards 
the  erring  and  fallen.  In  this,  indeed,  one  does 
see  a  saintly  quality.  There  were  no  irreparable 
sins  to  Stevenson;  nothing  that  might  man  or 
woman  do  that  was  not  redeemable;  he  had  an 
immeasurable  tolerance,  an  immeasurable  ten- 
derness for  those  who  had  been  cast  by  the 
world  outside  the  pale. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion  his  looking  up 
from  the  book  he  was  reading,  a  copy  of  Don 
Quixote,  and  remarking  with  a  sigh:  "That's 
what  I  am,  Lloyd — just  another  Don  Quixote!" 
His  smile  as  he  spoke  was  a  little  poignant,  for 
the  description  was  not  without  its  sting.  In- 
tolerant of  evil;  almost  absurdly  chivalrous; 
passionately  resentful  of  injustice;  impulsive, 
headstrong,  utterly  scornful  of  conventions 
when  they  were  at  variance  with  what  he  con- 
sidered right — his  was  a  nature  that  was  sure  to 
be  misjudged  and  as  surely  ridiculed  by  many. 
The  Greathearts  of  the  world  have  always 
seemed  "erratic,"  "affected,"  and  "unbal- 
anced" to  the  timid  and  envious  souls  who  have 
jotted  down  these  supposed  deficiencies  for 
posterity. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  praise  here  Will  Low's 
Chronicle  of  Friendships,  in  which,  in  my  opin- 

xxxiii 


INTRODUCTION 

ion,  Stevenson  is  more  illuminatingly  revealed 
than  in  anything  ever  written  of  him.  Here 
is  the  true  Stevenson — the  Stevenson  I  would 
fain  have  the  reader  know  and  take  to  his  heart 
— boyish,  gay,  and  of  all  things  approachable  to 
the  poorest  and  shabbiest;  a  man  bubbling  over 
with  talk  and  no  less  eager  to  listen;  a  man 
radiating  human  kindness  and  good-will,  in 
whom  the  gift  of  genius  had  not  displaced  the 
most  winning,  the  most  lovable  of  personal 
qualities. 

LLOYD  OSBOURNE. 


xxxiv 


AN    INLAND    VOYAGE 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

TTTE'RE  far  frae  hame,"  murmured  a  dying 
V  T  Scot,  when  my  husband  found  him  lying  on 
the  floor  of  a  native  hut  in  one  of  the  islands  of 
the  Tukalau  group.  It  seems  strange  that  with  a 
love  of  home  only  equalled  by  the  Swiss,  the  Scot 
should  be  the  greatest  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  excepting  the  Jew,  who  has,  at  least,  the  ex- 
cuse of  belonging  to  a  race  without  a  country. 

My  husband  was  born  with  the  Scottish  longing  to 
get  to  "the  back  of  beyond";  in  his  very  nursery  he 
strained  at  the  tether  strings,  and  was  never  so  happy 
as  when  allowed  to  accompany  his  mother  in  her 
journeys  to  the  South  of  France.  There,  in  Mentone, 
the  child  acquired  an  accent  and  vocabulary  that 
remained  with  him  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  knew 
little  of  the  French  grammar  (or,  indeed,  of  any  gram- 
mar) but  spoke  the  vernacular  with  a  freedom  and 
accuracy  that  caused  him  to  be  accepted  everywhere 
by  the  French  as  one  of  themselves,  though  perhaps 
from  another  province.  Once  in  Nice,  when  ex- 
hausted by  a  long  walk,  he  stopped  to  rest  at  a  low 

xxxvii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

drinking-place.  A  couple  of  villainous-looking  fel- 
lows at  the  next  table  ceased  speaking,  regarded  him 
intently  for  a  few  moments,  listening  to  his  order,  and 
then  resumed  their  conversation,  satisfied  that 
they  had  nothing  to  fear.  They  were  discussing 
their  hatred  of  the  English,  and  the  possibility  of 
drugging  and  robbing  the  first  Englishman  who 
should  enter  the  place. 

As  the  boy  grew  into  manhood  the  Scottish  unrest 
and  his  own  adventurous  spirit  made  a  life  of  inac- 
tion almost  unendurable;  it  was  only  the  knowledge 
that  such  a  course  would  break  his  father's  heart  that 
held  him  back  from  accepting  the  advice  of  Mr.  Seed 
(afterwards  premier  of  New  Zealand)  to  go  to  the 
Samoan  Islands.  How  he  would  have  paid  his 
passage  I  cannot  conceive,  as  the  small  amount  of 
pocket  money  allowed  him  by  his  father  not  only 
would  have  been  insufficient  for  the  purpose,  but  he 
had  an  invalid  friend  lying  hi  the  hospital  whose 
comfort  depended  on  that  infinitesimal  sum.  For  a 
long  while  he  was  fain  to  content  himself  with  in- 
active roving.  To  the  end  of  his  life  he  found  the 
keenest  pleasure  in  the  study  of  a  map,  especially 
one  of  roads.  Like  Branwell  Bronte,  of  whom 
he  could  never  speak  without  emotion,  he  would 
sit  poring  over  maps,  making  imaginary  journeys. 
Like  young  Bronte,  too,  he  knew  the  hours  when 
the  railway  trains  of  London  and  Paris  started, 
and  when  outgoing  passenger  ships  left  English  and 

xxxviii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

French  ports.  "Poor  cage  bird!"  he  cries.  "Do 
I  not  remember  the  time  when  I  myself  haunted  the 
station,  to  watch  train  after  train  carry  its  comple- 
ment of  passengers  into  the  night,  and  read  the  names 
of  distant  places  on  the  time  bills  with  indescribable 
longing?" 

In  his  early  twenties  the  stern  parental  discipline 
relaxed  to  a  degree,  and  the  son,  whose  uncertain 
health  began  to  show  the  hereditary  weakness  de- 
rived from  his  mother,  was  allowed  more  freedom. 
He  was  sent  to  Germany  for  a  vacation  with  Sir 
Walter  Simpson  in  1872,  and  after  an  attack  of 
diphtheria  in  1873,  was  ordered  to  the  South  of  France 
by  Dr.  Andrew  Clarke.  The  latter  excursion  was, 
however,  only  made  possible  by  the  intervention  of 
Mr.  Sidney  Colvin,  between  whom  and  the  attrac- 
tive, brilliant  boy,  a  lifelong  friendship  had  already 
begun. 

Sir  Walter  Simpson,  son  of  the  famous  physi- 
cian, was  a  reticent,  cautious  man,  who  came  to 
no  decision  until  the  question  involved  had  been 
carefully  examined  on  all  sides.  Scrupulously  hon- 
est himself,  he  judged  others  with  an  extraordinary 
generosity.  Indeed,  his  leniency  towards  the  faults 
of  others  very  nearly  touched  the  borders  of  cynicism. 
He  was  a  loyal  friend  and  possessed  those  rare  quali- 
ties which  make  a  man  a  desirable  companion.  The 
intimacy  between  him  and  Louis  Stevenson  began 
when  both  were  attending  the  University  of  Edin- 
xxxix 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

burgh,  and  was  further  cemented  by  their  common 
love  of  the  sea.  The  two  had  already  made  several 
short  cruises  along  the  Scottish  coast,  in  a  boat  be- 
longing to  Sir  Walter,  when  the  canoe  voyage  was 
planned. 

By  this  time  Louis  Stevenson  had  made  a  slight 
mark  in  literature,  and  a  little  money,  by  writing 
magazine  articles,  so  that  he  now  felt  capable  of  at 
least  paying  his  way  in  a  very  modest  fashion  on  the 
projected  inland  voyage;  and,  besides,  he  hoped  to 
write  an  account  of  the  trip  which  should  cover  the 
expenses  of  a  second  venture.  For  this  book,  The 
Inland  Voyage,  he  received  from  Mr.  Kegan  Paul  the 
amount  of  twenty  pounds;  but  he  had  gained  in 
health,  and  had  grown  to  know  better  the  character 
of  the  French  peasant  and  villager. 

F.  V.  DE  G.  S. 


xl 


DEDICATION 

TO 

SIR  WALTER  GRINDLAY  SIMPSON 

Bart. 


dear  Cigarette, 
It  was  enough  that  you  should  have  shared  so 
Liberally  in.  the  rains  and  portages  of  our  voyage; 
that  you  should  have  had  so  hard  a  paddle  to  re- 
cover the  derelict  Arethusa  on  the  flooded  OLte; 
and  that  you  should  thenceforth  have  piloted  a 
mere  wreck,  of  mankind  to  Origny  Saintc-Bcnoite 
and  a  supper  so  eagerly  desired.  It  wad  perhaps 
more  than  enough,  as  you  once  somewhat  piteously 
complained,  that  I  should  have  jet  down  all  the 
strong  language  to  you,  and  kept  the  appropriate 
reflections  for  myself.  I  could  not  in  decency 
expose  you  to  share  the  disgrace  of  another  and 
more  public  shipwreck.  But  now  that  this  voyage 
of  ours  is  going  into  a  cheap  edition,  that  peril, 


AN  INLAND   VOYAGE 

we  shall  hope,  is  at  an  end,  arid  I  /nay  put  your 
name  on  the  burgee. 

But  I  cannot  pause  till  I  have  lamented  the 
fate  of  our  two  ships.  That,  sir,  was  not  afortu- 
nate  day  when  we  projected  the  po&CMum  of  a 
canal  barge;  it  was  not  a  fortunate  day  when  we 
shared  our  day-dream  with  the  most  hopeful  of 
day-dreamers.  For  a  while,  indeed,  the  world 
looked  smilingly.  The  barge  was  procured  and 
christened,  and  as  the  Eleven  Thousand  Vir- 
gins of  Cologne,  lay  for  some  months,  the  ad- 
mired of  all  admirers,  In  a  pleasant  river  and 
under  the  walls  of  an  ancient  town,  JH.  Jtfattras, 
the  accomplished  carpenter  of  Jforet,  had  made 
her  a  centre  of  emulous  labour;  and  you  will  not 
have  forgotten  the  amount  of  sweet  champagne 
consumed  in  the  inn  at  the  bridge  end,  to  give 
zeal  to  the  workmen  and  speed  to  the  work.  On 
the  financial  aspect,  I  would  not  willingly  dwell. 
The  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins  of  Cologne 
rotted  in  the  stream  where  she  was  beautified.  She 
felt  not  the  impulse  of  the  breeze;  she  was  never 
harnessed  to  the  patient  track-horse.  And  when 
at  length  she  was  sold,  by  the  indignant  carpenter 


DEDICATION 

of  Jfforct,  there  were  jold  along  with  her  the  Are- 
thusa  and  the  Cigarette,  jhe  of  cedar,  jhe,  a<f 
we  knew  jo  keenly  on  a  portage,  of  <tolu)~hearted 
English  oak.  Now  theje  historic  ve<ueU  fly  the 
tricolor  and  are  known  by  new  and  alien  namej. 

R.  L.  S. 


PREFACE  TO  THE 
FIRST  EDITION 

TO  equip  so  small  a  book  with  a  preface  is, 
I  am  half  afraid,  to  sin  against  proportion. 
But  a  preface  is  more  than  an  author  can  resist, 
for  it  is  the  reward  of  his  labours.  When  the 
foundation  stone  is  laid,  the  architect  appears 
with  his  plans,  and  struts  for  an  hour  before 
the  public  eye.  So  with  the  writer  in  his 
preface:  he  may  have  never  a  word  to  say,  but 
he  must  show  himself  for  a  moment  in  the  por- 
tico, hat  in  hand,  and  with  an  urbane  demeanour. 

It  is  best,  in  such  circumstance,  to  represent 
a  delicate  shade  of  manner  between  humility 
and  superiority :  as  if  the  book  had  been  written 
by  some  one  else,  and  you  had  merely  run  over 
it  and  inserted  what  was  good.  But  for  my 
part  I  have  not  yet  learned  the  trick  to  that  per- 
fection; I  am  not  yet  able  to  dissemble  the 
warmth  of  my  sentiments  towards  a  reader; 
and  if  I  meet  him  on  the  threshold,  it  is  to  invite 
him  in  with  country  cordiality. 

To  say  truth,  I  had  no  sooner  finished  reading 
xlv 


PREFACE 

this  little  book  in  proof  than  I  was  seized  upon  by 
a  distressing  apprehension. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  not  only  be 
the  first  to  read  these  pages,  but  the  last  as  well ; 
that  I  might  have  pioneered  this  very  smiling 
tract  of  country  all  in  vain,  and  find  not  a  soul 
to  follow  in  my  steps.  The  more  I  thought, 
the  more  I  disliked  the  notion;  until  the  dis- 
taste grew  into  a  sort  of  panic  terror,  and  I 
rushed  into  this  Preface,  which  is  no  more  than 
an  advertisement  for  readers. 

What  am  I  to  say  for  my  book?  Caleb  and 
Joshua  brought  back  from  Palestine  a  formidable 
bunch  of  grapes;  alas!  my  book  produces  naught 
so  nourishing;  and  for  the  matter  of  that,  we 
live  in  an  age  when  people  prefer  a  definition 
to  any  quantity  of  fruit. 

I  wonder,  would  a  negative  be  found  enticing? 
for,  from  the  negative  point  of  view,  I  flatter 
myself  this  volume  has  a  certain  stamp.  Al- 
though it  runs  to  considerably  upwards  of  two 
hundred  pages,  it  contains  not  a  single  reference 
to  the  imbecility  of  God's  universe,  nor  so  much 
as  a  single  hint  that  I  could  have  made  a  better 
one  myself — I  really  do  not  know  where  my 
head  can  have  been.  I  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten all  that  makes  it  glorious  to  be  man. 
'T  is  an  omission  that  renders  the  book  philo- 
sophically unimportant;  but  I  am  in  hopes  the 
eccentricity  may  please  in  frivolous  circles. 

To  the  friend  who  accompanied  me  I  owe 

xlvi 


PREFACE 

many  thanks  already,  indeed,  I  wish  I  owed 
him  nothing  else;  but  at  this  moment  I  feel 
towards  him  an  almost  exaggerated  tenderness. 
He,  at  least,  will  become  my  reader — if  it  were 
only  to  follow  his  own  travels  alongside  of  mine. 

R.  L.  S. 


xlvii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


PREFATORY  NOTE    .    . xxxvii 

DEDICATION xli 

PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION      .      .  xlv 

ANTWERP  TO  BOOM 3 

ON  THE  WlLLEBROEK  CANAL         ...  9 

THE  ROYAL  SPORT  NAUTIQUE       ...  16 

AT  MAUBEUGE 23 

ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

To  Quartes 29 

PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

We  are  Pedlars 36 

The  Travelling  Merchant ....  43 

ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

To  Landrecies 49 

AT  LANDRECIES 56 

SAMBRE  AND  OISE  CANAL 

Canal  Boats 62 

1 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  OISE  EN*  FLOOD 68 

ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

A  By-Day 78 

DOWN  THE  OISE  . 

ToMoy 94 

LE  FERE  OF  CURSED  MEMORY  ....  101 

DOWN  THE  OISE 

Through  the  Golden  Valley    ...  108 

NOYON  CATHEDRAL Ill 

DOWN  THE  OISE 

To  Compiegne 117 

AT  COMPIEGNE 120 

CHANGED  TLMES        126 

DOWN  THE  OISE 

Church  Interiors 134 

PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES  .      .     .     .142 

BACK  TO  THE  WORLD 155 

EPILOGUE  .  158 


AN   INLAND   VOYAGE 
ANTWERP  TO  BOOM 

E  made  a  great  stir  in  Antwerp 
Docks.  A  stevedore  and  a  lot 
of  dock  porters  took  up  the  two 
canoes,  and  ran  with  them  for 
the  slip.  A  crowd  of  children  fol- 
lowed cheering.  The  Cigarette 
went  off  in  a  splash  and  a  bubble  of  small  break- 
ing water.  Next  moment  the  Arethusa  was  after 
her.  A  steamer  was  coming  down,  men  on  the 
paddle-box  shouted  hoarse  warnings,  the  steve- 
dore and  his  porters  were  bawling  from  the  quay. 
But  in  a  stroke  or  two  the  canoes  were  away 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  Scheldt,  and  all  steam- 
ers, and  stevedores,  and  other  'long-shore  vani- 
ties were  left  behind. 

The  sun  shone  brightly;  the  tide  was  making 
four  jolly  miles  an  hour;  the  wind  blew  steadily, 
with  occasional  squalls.  For  my  part,  I  had 
never  been  in  a  canoe  under  sail  in  my  life;  and 
my  first  experiment  out  in  the  middle  of  this  big 

3 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

river  was  not  made  without  some  trepidation. 
What  would  happen  when  the  wind  first  caught 
my  little  canvas?  I  suppose  it  was  almost  as 
trying  a  venture  into  the  regions  of  the  unknown 
as  to  publish  a  first  book,  or  to  marry.  But 
my  doubts  were  not  of  long  duration;  and  in 
five  minutes  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn 
that  I  had  tied  my  sheet. 

I  own  I  was  a  little  struck  by  this  circum- 
stance myself;  of  course,  in  company  with  the 
rest  of  my  fellow-men,  I  had  always  tied  the  sheet 
in  a  sailing-boat;  but  in  so  little  and  crank  a 
concern  as  a  canoe,  and  with  these  charging 
squalls,  I  was  not  prepared  to  find  myself 
follow  the  same  principle;  and  it  inspired  me 
with  some  contemptuous  views  of  our  regard 
for  life.  It  is  certainly  easier  to  smoke  with 
the  sheet  fastened;  but  I  had  never  before 
weighed  a  comfortable  pipe  of  tobacco  against 
an  obvious  risk,  and  gravely  elected  for  the  com- 
fortable pipe.  It  is  a  commonplace,  that  we 
cannot  answer  for  ourselves  before  we  have 
been  tried.  But  it  is  not  so  common  a  reflection, 
and  surely  more  consoling,  that  we  usually  find 
ourselves  a  great  deal  braver  and  better  than 
we  thought.  I  believe  this  is  every  one's  ex- 
perience :  but  an  apprehension  that  they  may  be- 
lie themselves  in  the  future  prevents  mankind 
from  trumpeting  this  cheerful  sentiment  abroad. 
I  wish  sincerely,  for  it  would  have  saved  me 
much  trouble,  there  had  been  some  one  to  put 


ANTWERP  TO  BOOM 

me  in  a  good  heart  about  life  when  I  was  younger ; 
to  tell  me  how  dangers  are  most  portentous  on 
a  distant  sight;  and  how  the  good  in  a  man's 
spirit  will  not  suffer  itself  to  be  overlaid,  and 
rarely  or  never  deserts  him  in  the  hour  of  need. 
But  we  are  all  for  tootling  on  the  sentimental 
flute  in  literature ;  and  not  a  man  among  us  will 
go  to  the  head  of  the  march  to  sound  the  heady 
drums. 

It  was  agreeable  upon  the  river.  A  barge 
or  two  went  past  laden  with  hay.  Reeds  and 
willows  bordered  the  stream;  and  cattle  and 
grey,  venerable  horses  came  and  hung  their 
mild  heads  over  the  embankment.  Here  and 
there  was  a  pleasant  village  among  trees,  with 
a  noisy  shipping-yard;  here  and  there  a  villa 
in  a  lawn.  The  wind  served  us  well  up  the 
Scheldt  and  thereafter  up  the  Rupel;  and  we 
were  running  pretty  free  when  we  began  to  sight 
the  brickyards  of  Boom,  lying  for  a  long  way  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  river.  The  left  bank  was 
still  green  and  pastoral,  with  alleys  of  trees  along 
the  embankment,  and  here  and  there  a  flight 
of  steps  to  serve  a  ferry,  where  perhaps  there 
sat  a  woman  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  or 
an  old  gentleman  with  a  staff  and  silver  spec- 
tacles. But  Boom  and  its  brickyards  grew  smok- 
ier and  shabbier  with  every  minute;  until  a  great 
church  with  a  clock,  and  a  wooden  bridge  over 
the  river,  indicated  the  central  quarters  of  the 
town. 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

Boom  is  not  a  nice  place,  and  is  only  remark- 
able for  one  thing:  that  the  majority  of  the  in- 
habitants have  a  private  opinion  that  they  can 
speak  English,  which  is  not  justified  by  fact. 
This  gave  a  kind  of  haziness  to  our  intercourse. 
As  for  the  Hotel  de  la  Navigation,  I  think  it  is 
the  worst  feature  of  the  place.  It  boasts  of  a 
sanded  parlour,  with  a  bar  at  one  end,  looking  on 
the  street;  and  another  sanded  parlour,  darker 
and  colder,  with  an  empty  bird-cage  and  a  tri- 
colour subscription  box  by  way  of  sole  adornment, 
where  we  made  shift  to  dine  in  the  company 
of  three  uncommunicative  engineer  apprentices 
and  a  silent  bagman.  The  food,  as  usual  in 
Belgium,  was  of  a  nondescript  occasional  char- 
acter; indeed  I  have  never  been  able  to  detect 
anything  in  the  nature  of  a  meal  among  this 
pleasing  people;  they  seem  to  peck  and  trifle 
with  viands  all  day  long  in  an  amateur  spirit: 
tentatively  French,  truly  German,  and  some- 
how falling  between  the  two. 

The  empty  bird-cage,  swept  and  garnished, 
and  with  no  trace  of  the  old  piping  favourite, 
save  where  two  wires  had  been  pushed  apart  to 
hold  its  lump  of  sugar,  carried  with  it  a  sort  of 
graveyard  cheer.  The  engineer  apprentices 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  us,  nor  indeed  to 
the  bagman;  but  talked  low  and  sparingly  to  one 
another,  or  raked  us  in  the  gaslight  with  a  gleam 
of  spectacles.  For  though  handsome  lads,  they 
were  all  (in  the  Scots  phrase)  barnacled. 

6 


ANTWERP  TO  BOOM 

There  was  an  English  maid  in  the  hotel,  who 
had  been  long  enough  out  of  England  to  pick  up 
all  sorts  of  funny  foreign  idioms,  and  all  sorts 
of  curious  foreign  ways,  which  need  not  here  be 
specified.  She  spoke  to  us  very  fluently  in  her 
jargon,  asked  us  information  as  to  the  manners 
of  the  present  day  in  England,  and  obligingly 
corrected  us  when  we  attempted  to  answer. 
But  as  we  were  dealing  with  a  woman,  perhaps 
our  information  was  not  so  much  thrown  away 
as  it  appeared.  The  sex  likes  to  pick  up  knowl- 
edge and  yet  preserve  its  superiority.  It  is 
good  policy,  and  almost  necessary  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. If  a  man  finds  a  woman  admires 
him,  were  it  only  for  his  acquaintance  with 
geography,  he  will  begin  at  once  to  build  upon 
the  admiration.  It  is  only  by  unintermittent 
snubbing  that  the  pretty  ones  can  keep  us  in 
our  place.  Men,  as  Miss  Howe  or  Miss  Harlowe 
would  have  said,  "are  such  encroachers."  For 
my  part,  I  am  body  and  soul  with  the  women; 
and  after  a  well-married  couple,  there  is  nothing 
so  beautiful  in  the  world  as  the  myth  of  the  di- 
vine huntress.  It  is  no  use  for  a  man  to  take 
to  the  woods;  we  know  him;  Anthony  tried  the 
same  thing  long  ago,  and  had  a  pitiful  time  of  it 
by  all  accounts.  But  there  is  this  about  some 
women,  which  overtops  the  best  gymnosophist 
among  men,  that  they  suffice  to  themselves, 
and  can  walk  in  a  high  and  cold  zone  without  the 
countenance  of  any  trousered  being.  I  declare, 

7 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

although  the  reverse  of  a  professed  ascetic,  I 
am  more  obliged  to  women  for  this  ideal  than  I 
should  be  to  the  majority  of  them,  or,  indeed, 
to  any  but  one,  for  a  spontaneous  kiss.  There 
is  nothing  so  encouraging  as  the  spectacle  of 
self-sufficiency.  And  when  I  think  of  the  slim 
and  lovely  maidens,  running  the  woods  all 
night  to  the  note  of  Diana's  horn;  moving  among 
the  old  oaks,  as  fancy-free  as  they;  things  of  the 
forest  and  the  starlight,  not  touched  by  the 
commotion  of  man's  hot  and  turbid  life — al- 
though there  are  plenty  other  ideals  that  I 
should  prefer — I  find  my  heart  beat  at  the 
thought  of  this  one.  Tis  to  fail  in  life,  but  to 
fail  with  what  a  grace!  That  is  not  lost  which 
is  not  regretted.  And  where — here  slips  out  the 
male — where  would  be  much  of  the  glory  of  in- 
spiring love,  if  there  were  no  contempt  to  over- 
come? 


8 


ON  THE  WILLEBROEK  CANAL 

NEXT  morning,  when  we  set  forth  on  the 
Willebroek  Canal,  the  rain  began  heavy 
and  chill.  The  water  of  the  canal  stood  at 
about  the  drinking  temperature  of  tea;  and  under 
this  cold  aspersion,  the  surface  was  covered  with 
steam.  The  exhilaration  of  departure,  and  the 
easy  motion  of  the  boats  under  each  stroke  of 
the  paddles,  supported  us  through  this  misfor- 
tune while  it  lasted;  and  when  the  cloud  passed 
and  the  sun  came  out  again,  our  spirits  went 
up  above  the  range  of  stay-at-home  humours. 
A  good  breeze  rustled  and  shivered  in  the  rows 
of  trees  that  bordered  the  canal.  The  leaves 
flickered  in  and  out  of  the  light  in  tumultuous 
masses.  It  seemed  sailing  weather  to  eye  and 
ear;  but  down  between  the  banks,  the  wind 
reached  us  only  in  faint  and  desultory  puffs. 
There  was  hardly  enough  to  steer  by.  Progress 
was  intermittent  and  unsatisfactory.  A  jocular 
person,  of  marine  antecedents,  hailed  us  from  the 
tow-path  with  a  "C'est  vite,  mats  c'est  long." 

The   canal  was  busy   enough.    Every   now 
and  then  we  met  or  overtook  a  long  string  of 

9 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

boats,  with  great  green  tillers;  high  sterns  with  a 
window  on  either  side  of  the  rudder,  and  per- 
haps a  jug  or  a  flower-pot  in  one  of  the  windows; 
a  dingy  following  behind;  a  woman  busied 
about  the  day's  dinner,  and  a  handful  of  chil- 
dren. These  barges  were  all  tied  one  behind 
the  other  with  tow  ropes,  to  the  number  of 
twenty-five  or  thirty;  and  the  line  was  headed 
and  kept  in  motion  by  a  steamer  of  strange  con- 
struction. It  had  neither  paddle-wheel  nor 
screw;  but  by  some  gear  not  rightly  comprehen- 
sible to  the  unmechanical  mind,  it  fetched  up 
over  its  bow  a  small  bright  chain  which  lay 
along  the  bottom  of  the  canal,  and  paying  it 
out  again  over  the  stern,  dragged  itself  forward, 
link  by  link,  with  its  whole  retinue  of  loaded 
scows.  Until  one  had  found  out  the  key  to  the 
enigma,  there  was  something  solemn  and  un- 
comfortable in  the  progress  of  one  of  these 
trains,  as  it  moved  gently  along  the  water  with 
nothing  to  mark  its  advance  but  an  eddy  along- 
side dying  away  into  the  wake. 

Of  all  the  creatures  of  commercial  enterprise, 
a  canal  barge  is  by  far  the  most  delightful  to 
consider.  It  may  spread  its  sails,  and  then  you 
see  it  sailing  high  above  the  tree-tops  and 
the  windmill,  sailing  on  the  aqueduct,  sailing 
through  the  green  corn-lands:  the  most  pictur- 
esque of  things  amphibious.  Or  the  horse  plods 
along  at  a  foot-pace  as  if  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  business  in  the  world;  and  the  man 

10 


ON  THE  WILLEBROEK  CANAL 

dreaming  at  the  tiller  sees  the  same  spire  on  the 
horizon  all  day  long.  It  is  a  mystery  how 
things  ever  get  to  their  destination  at  this  rate; 
and  to  see  the  barges  waiting  their  turn  at  a 
lock,  affords  a  fine  lesson  of  how  easily  the  world 
may  be  taken.  There  should  be  many  contented 
spirits  on  board,  for  such  a  life  is  both  to  travel 
and  to  stay  at  home. 

The  chimney  smokes  for  dinner  as  you  go 
along;  the  banks  of  the  canal  slowly  unroll  their 
scenery  to  contemplative  eyes;  the  barge  floats 
by  great  forests  and  through  great  cities  with 
their  public  buildings  and  their  lamps  at  night; 
and  for  the  bargee,  in  his  floating  home,  "trav- 
elling abed,"  it  is  merely  as  if  he  were  listening 
to  another  man's  story  or  turning  the  leaves  of  a 
picture  book  in  which  he  had  no  concern.  He 
may  take  his  afternoon  walk  in  some  foreign 
country  on  the  banks  of  the  canal,  and  then 
come  home  to  dinner  at  his  own  fireside. 

There  is  not  enough  exercise  in  such  a  life  for 
any  high  measure  of  health;  but  a  high  measure 
of  health  is  only  necessary  for  unhealthy  people. 
The  slug  of  a  fellow,  who  is  never  ill  nor  well, 
has  a  quiet  time  of  it  in  life,  and  dies  all  the 
easier. 

I  am  sure  I  would  rather  be  a  bargee  than 
occupy  any  position  under  Heaven  that  required 
attendance  at  an  office.  There  are  few  callings, 
I  should  say,  where  a  man  gives  up  less  of  his 
liberty  in  return  for  regular  meals.  The  bargee 

11 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

is  on  shipboard;  he  is  master  in  his  own  ship; 
he  can  land  whenever  he  will;  he  can  never  be 
kept  beating  off  a  lee-shore  a  whole  frosty  night 
when  the  sheets  are  as  hard  as  iron;  and  so  far 
as  I  can  make  out,  time  stands  as  nearly  still 
with  him  as  is  compatible  with  the  return  of 
bedtime  or  the  dinner-hour.  It  is  not  easy  to 
see  why  a  bargee  should  ever  die. 

Half-way  between  Willebroek  and  Villevorde, 
in  a  beautiful  reach  of  canal  like  a  squire's 
avenue,  we  went  ashore  to  lunch.  There  were 
two  eggs,  a  junk  of  bread,  and  a  bottle  of  wine 
on  board  the  Arethusa;  and  two  eggs  and  an 
Etna  cooking  apparatus  on  board  the  Cigarette. 
The  master  of  the  latter  boat  smashed  one  of  the 
eggs  in  the  course  of  disembarkation;  but  ob- 
serving pleasantly  that  it  might  still  be  cooked 
a  la  papier,  he  dropped  it  into  the  Etna,  in  its 
covering  of  Flemish  newspaper.  We  landed  in  a 
blink  of  fine  weather;  but  we  had  not  been  two 
minutes  ashore  before  the  wind  freshened  into 
half  a  gale,  and  the  rain  began  to  patter  on  our 
shoulders.  We  sat  as  close  about  the  Etna  as  we 
could.  The  spirits  burned  with  great  ostenta- 
tion; the  grass  caught  flame  every  minute  or 
two,  and  had  to  be  trodden  out ;  and  before  long 
there  were  several  burnt  fingers  of  the  party. 
But  the  solid  quantity  of  cookery  accomplished 
was  out  of  proportion  with  so  much  display; 
and  when  we  desisted,  after  two  applications 
of  the  fire,  the  sound  egg  was  a  little  more  than 

12 


ON  THE  WILLEBROEK  CANAL 

loo-warm;  and  as  for  a  la  papier,  it  was  a  cold 
and  sordid  fricassee  of  printer's  ink  and  broken 
egg-shell.  We  made  shift  to  roast  the  other 
two  by  putting  them  close  to  the  burning  spirits, 
and  that  with  better  success.  And  then  we 
uncorked  the  bottle  of  wine,  and  sat  down  in  a 
ditch  with  our  canoe  aprons  over  our  knees.  It 
rained  smartly.  Discomfort,  when  it  is  hon- 
estly uncomfortable  and  makes  no  nauseous  pre- 
tensions to  the  contrary,  is  a  vastly  humorous 
business;  and  people  well  steeped  and  stupefied 
in  the  open  air  are  in  a  good  vein  for  laughter. 
From  this  point  of  view,  even  egg  a  la  papier 
offered  by  way  of  food  may  pass  muster  as  a 
sort  of  accessory  to  the  fun.  But  this  manner 
of  jest,  although  it  may  be  taken  in  good  part, 
does  not  invite  repetition;  and  from  that  time 
forward  the  Etna  voyaged  like  a  gentleman  in 
the  locker  of  the  Cigarette. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  mention  that 
when  lunch  was  over  and  we  got  aboard  again 
and  made  sail,  the  wind  promptly  died  away. 
The  rest  of  the  journey  to  Villevorde  we  still 
spread  our  canvas  to  the  unfavouring  air,  and 
with  now  and  then  a  puff,  and  now  and  then  a 
spell  of  paddling,  drifted  along  from  lock  to  lock 
between  the  orderly  trees. 

It  was  a  fine,  green,  fat  landscape,  or  rather 
a  mere  green  water-lane  going  on  from  village 
to  village.  Things  had  a  settled  look,  as  in 
places  long  lived  in.  Crop-headed  children 

13 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

spat  upon  us  from  the  bridges  as  we  went  below, 
with  a  true  conservative  feeling.  But  even 
more  conservative  were  the  fishermen,  intent 
upon  their  floats,  who  let  us  go  by  without  one 
glance.  They  perched  upon  sterlings  and  but- 
tresses and  along  the  slope  of  the  embankment, 
gently  occupied.  They  were  indifferent  like 
pieces  of  dead  nature.  They  did  not  move  any 
more  than  if  they  had  been  fishing  in  an  old 
Dutch  print.  The  leaves  fluttered,  the  water 
lapped,  but  they  continued  in  one  stay,  like  so 
many  churches  established  by  law.  You  might 
have  trepanned  every  one  of  their  innocent 
heads  and  found  no  more  than  so  much  coiled 
fishing  line  below  their  skulls.  I  do  not  care 
for  your  stalwart  fellows  in  india-rubber  stock- 
ings breasting  up  mountain  torrents  with  a 
salmon  rod;  but  I  do  dearly  love  the  class  of 
man  who  plies  his  unfruitful  art  forever  and  a 
day  by  still  and  depopulated  waters. 

At  the  lock  just  beyond  Villevorde  there  was 
a  lock  mistress  who  spoke  French  comprehen- 
sibly, and  told  us  we  were  still  a  couple  of  leagues 
from  Brussels.  At  the  same  place  the  rain  began 
again.  It  fell  in  straight,  parallel  lines,  and  the 
surface  of  the  canal  was  thrown  up  into  an  in- 
finity of  little  crystal  fountains.  There  were 
no  beds  to  be  had  in  the  neighbourhood.  Noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  lay  the  sails  aside  and  address 
ourselves  to  steady  paddling  in  the  rain. 

Beautiful  country  houses,  with  clocks  and 
14 


ON  THE  WILLEBROEK  CANAL 

long  lines  of  shuttered  windows,  and  fine  old 
trees  standing  in  groves  and  avenues,  gave  a 
rich  and  sombre  aspect  in  the  rain  and  the  deep- 
ening dusk  to  the  shores  of  the  canal.  I  seem 
to  have  seen  something  of  the  same  effect  in 
engravings:  opulent  landscapes,  deserted  and 
overhung  with  the  passage  of  storm.  And 
throughout  we  had  the  escort  of  a  hooded  cart, 
which  trotted  shabbily  along  the  tow-path,  and 
kept  at  an  almost  uniform  distance  in  our  wake. 


15 


THE  ROYAL  SPORT  NAUTIQUE 

THE  rain  took  off  near  Laeken.  But  the 
sun  was  already  down;  the  air  was  chill; 
and  we  had  scarcely  a  dry  stitch  between  the 
pair  of  us.  Nay,  now  we  found  ourselves  near 
the  end  of  the  Alice  Verte,  and  on  the  very  thresh- 
old of  Brussels  we  were  confronted  by  a  seri- 
ous difficulty.  The  shores  were  closely  lined 
by  canal  boats  waiting  their  turn  at  the  lock. 
Nowhere  was  there  any  convenient  landing 
place;  nowhere  so  much  as  a  stable-yard  to 
leave  the  canoes  in  for  the  night.  We  scram- 
bled ashore  and  entered  an  estaminet  where 
some  sorry  fellows  were  drinking  with  the  land- 
lord. The  landlord  was  pretty  round  with  us ;  he 
knew  of  no  coach-house  or  stable-yard,  nothing 
of  the  sort;  and  seeing  we  had  come  with  no 
mind  to  drink,  he  did  not  conceal  his  impatience 
to  be  rid  of  us.  One  of  the  sorry  fellows  came 
to  the  rescue.  Somewhere  in  the  corner  of  the 
basin  there  was  a  slip,  he  informed  us,  and  some- 
thing else  besides,  not  very  clearly  defined  by 
him,  but  hopefully  construed  by  his  hearers. 

16 


THE  ROYAL  SPORT  NAUTIQUE 

Sure  enough  there  was  the  slip  in  the  corner 
of  the  basin ;  and  at  the  top  of  it  two  nice-looking 
lads  in  boating  clothes.  The  Arethusa  addressed 
himself  to  these.  One  of  them  said  there  would 
be  no  difficulty  about  a  night's  lodging  for  our 
boats;  and  the  other,  taking  a  cigarette  from 
his  lips,  inquired  if  they  were  made  by  Searle 
and  Son.  The  name  was  quite  an  introduction. 
Half-a-dozen  other  young  men  came  out  of  a 
boat-house  bearing  the  superscription  ROYAL 
SPORT  NAUTIQUE,  and  joined  in  the  talk.  They 
were  all  very  polite,  voluble,  and  enthusiastic; 
and  their  discourse  was  interlarded  with  Eng- 
lish boating  terms,  and  the  names  of  English 
boat-builders  and  English  clubs.  I  do  not 
know,  to  my  shame,  any  spot  in  my  native  land 
where  I  should  have  been  so  warmly  received  by 
the  same  number  of  people.  We  were  English 
boating-men,  and  the  Belgian  boating-men  fell 
upon  our  necks.  I  wonder  if  French  Huguenots 
were  as  cordially  greeted  by  English  Protestants 
when  they  came  across  the  Channel  out  of  great 
tribulation.  But,  after  all,  what  religion  knits 
people  so  closely  as  a  common  sport? 

The  canoes  were  carried  into  the  boat-house; 
they  were  washed  down  for  us  by  the  club  serv- 
ants, the  sails  were  hung  out  to  dry,  and  every- 
thing made  as  snug  and  tidy  as  a  picture.  And 
in  the  meanwhile  we  were  led  upstairs  by  our 
new-found  brethren,  for  so  more  than  one  of 
them  stated  the  relationship,  and  made  free  of 

17 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

their  lavatory.  This  one  lent  us  soap,  that  one 
a  towel,  a  third  and  fourth  helped  us  to  undo 
our  bags.  And  all  the  time  such  questions,  such 
assurances  of  respect  and  sympathy  1  I  declare 
I  never  knew  what  glory  was  before. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  Royal  Sport  Nautique  is  the 
oldest  club  in  Belgium." 

"We  number  two  hundred." 

"We" — this  is  not  a  substantive  speech, 
but  an  abstract  of  many  speeches,  the  impression 
left  upon  my  mind  after  a  great  deal  of  talk; 
and  very  youthful,  pleasant,  natural,  and  pa- 
triotic it  seems  to  me  to  be — "We  have  gained 
all  races,  except  those  where  we  were  cheated  by 
the  French." 

"You  must  leave  all  your  wet  things  to  be 
dried." 

"0!  entre  freres!  In  any  boat-house  in 
England  we  should  find  the  same."  (I  cordially 
hope  they  might.) 

"En  Angleterre,  vous  employez  des  sliding-seats, 
nest-ce  pas  ?  " 

"We  are  all  employed  in  commerce  during 
the  day;  but  in  the  evening,  voyez  vous,  nous 
sommes  serieux." 

These  were  the  words.  They  were  all  em- 
ployed over  the  frivolous  mercantile  concerns  of 
Belgium  during  the  day;  but  in  the  evening 
they  found  some  hours  for  the  serious  concerns 
of  life.  I  may  have  a  wrong  idea  of  wisdom,  but 
I  think  that  was  a  very  wise  remark.  People 

18 


THE   ROYAL  SPORT   NAUTIQUE 

connected  with  literature  and  philosophy  are 
busy  all  their  days  in  getting  rid  of  second-hand 
notions  and  false  standards.  It  is  their  profes- 
sion, in  the  sweat  of  their  brows,  by  dogged  think- 
ing, to  recover  their  old  fresh  view  of  life,  and 
distinguish  what  they  really  and  originally 
like  from  what  they  have  only  learned  to  tolerate 
perforce.  And  these  Royal  Nautical  Sportsmen 
had  the  distinction  still  quite  legible  in  their 
hearts.  They  had  still  those  clean  perceptions 
of  what  is  nice  and  nasty,  what  is  interesting 
and  what  is  dull,  which  envious  old  gentlemen 
refer  to  as  illusions.  The  nightmare  illusion  of 
middle  age,  the  bear's  hug  of  custom  gradually 
squeezing  the  life  out  of  a  man's  soul,  had  not  yet 
begun  for  these  happy-starred  young  Belgians. 
They  still  knew  that  the  interest  they  took  in 
their  business  was  a  trifling  affair  compared  to 
their  spontaneous,  long-suffering  affection  for 
nautical  sports.  To  know  what  you  prefer, 
instead  of  humbly  saying  Amen  to  what  the 
world  tells  you  you  ought  to  prefer,  is  to  have 
kept  your  soul  alive.  Such  a  man  may  be 
generous;  he  may  be  honest  in  something  more 
than  the  commercial  sense;  he  may  love  his 
friends  with  an  elective,  personal  sympathy,  and 
not  accept  them  as  an  adjunct  of  the  station  to 
which  he  has  been  called.  He  may  be  a  man,  in 
short,  acting  on  his  own  instincts,  keeping  in  his 
own  shape  that  God  made  him  in;  and  not  a  mere 
crank  in  the  social  engine-house,  welded  on 

19 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

principles  that  he  does  not  understand,  and  for 
purposes  that  he  does  not  care  for. 

For  will  any  one  dare  to  tell  me  that  business 
is  more  entertaining  than  fooling  among  boats? 
He  must  have  never  seen  a  boat,  or  never  seen 
an  office,  who  says  so.  And  for  certain  the  one 
is  a  great  deal  better  for  the  health.  There 
should  be  nothing  so  much  a  man's  business 
as  his  amusements.  Nothing  but  money-grub- 
bing can  be  put  forward  to  the  contrary ;  no  one 
but 

Mammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  Heaven, 

durst  risk  a  word  in  answer.  It  is  but  a  lying 
cant  that  would  represent  the  merchant  and  the 
banker  as  people  disinterestedly  toiling  for  man- 
kind, and  then  most  useful  when  they  are  most 
absorbed  in  their  transactions;  for  the  man  is 
more  important  than  his  services.  And  when 
my  Royal  Nautical  Sportsman  shall  have  so  far 
fallen  from  his  hopeful  youth  that  he  cannot 
pluck  up  an  enthusiasm  over  anything  but  his 
ledger,  I  venture  to  doubt  whether  he  will  be 
near  so  nice  a  fellow,  and  whether  he  would  wel- 
come, with  so  good  a  grace,  a  couple  of  drenched 
Englishmen  paddling  into  Brussels  in  the  dusk. 
When  we  had  changed  our  wet  clothes  and 
drunk  a  glass  of  pale  ale  to  the  club's  prosperity, 
one  of  their  number  escorted  us  to  a  hotel.  He 
would  not  join  us  at  our  dinner,  but  he  had  no 

20 


THE   ROYAL   SPORT   NAUTIQUE 

objection  to  a  glass  of  wine.  Enthusiasm  is 
very  wearing;  and  I  begin  to  understand  why 
prophets  were  unpopular  in  Judaea,  where  they 
were  best  known.  For  three  stricken  hours  did 
this  excellent  young  man  sit  beside  us  to  dilate 
on  boats  and  boat-races;  and  before  he  left,  he 
was  kind  enough  to  order  our  bedroom  candles. 

We  endeavoured  now  and  again  to  change  the 
subject;  but  the  diversion  did  not  last  a  mo- 
ment: the  Royal  Nautical  Sportsman  bridled, 
shied,  answered  the  question,  and  then  breasted 
once  more  into  the  swelling  tide  of  his  subject. 
I  call  it  his  subject ;  but  I  think  it  was  he  who  was 
subjected.  The  Arethusa,  who  holds  all  racing 
as.  a  creature  of  the  devil,  found  himself  in  a  piti- 
ful dilemma.  He  durst  not  own  his  ignorance 
for  the  honour  of  Old  England,  and  spoke  away 
about  English  clubs  and  English  oarsmen  whose 
fame  had  never  before  come  to  his  ears.  Several 
times,  and  once,  above  all,  on  the  question  of 
sliding-seats,  he  was  within  an  ace  of  exposure. 
As  for  the  Cigarette,  who  has  rowed  races  in  the 
heat  of  his  blood,  but  now  disowns  these  slips 
of  his  wanton  youth,  his  case  was  still  more  des- 
perate ;  for  the  Royal  Nautical  proposed  that  he 
should  take  an  oar  in  one  of  their  eights  on  the 
morrow,  to  compare  the  English  with  the  Bel- 
gian stroke.  I  could  see  my  friend  perspiring  in 
his  chair  whenever  that  particular  topic  came 
up.  And  there  was  yet  another  proposal  which 
had  the  same  effect  on  both  of  us.  It  appeared 

21 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

that  the  champion  canoeist  of  Europe  (as  well 
as  most  other  champions)  was  a  Royal  Nautical 
Sportsman.  And  if  we  would  only  wait  until 
the  Sunday,  this  infernal  paddler  would  be  so 
condescending  as  to  accompany  us  on  our  next 
stage.  Neither  of  us  had  the  least  desire  to 
drive  the  coursers  of  the  sun  against  Apollo. 

When  the  young  man  was  gone,  we  counter- 
manded our  candles,  and  ordered  some  brandy 
and  water.  The  great  billows  had  gone  over 
our  head.  The  Royal  Nautical  Sportsmen  were 
as  nice  young  fellows  as  a  man  would  wish  to  see, 
but  they  were  a  trifle  too  young  and  a  thought 
too  nautical  for  us.  We  began  to  see  that  we 
were  old  and  cynical;  we  liked  ease  and  the  agree- 
able rambling  of  the  human  mind  about  this  and 
the  other  subject;  we  did  not  want  to  disgrace 
our  native  land  by  messing  at  eight,  or  toiling 
pitifully  in  the  wake  of  the  champion  canoeist. 
In  short,  we  had  recourse  to  flight.  It  seemed 
ungrateful,  but  we  tried  to  make  that  good  on  a 
card  loaded  with  sincere  compliments.  And, 
indeed,  it  was  no  time  for  scruples;  we  seemed 
to  feel  the  hot  breath  of  the  champion  on  our 
necks. 


22 


AT  MAUBEUGE 

PARTLY  from  the  terror  we  had  of  our  good 
friends,  the  Royal  Nauticals,  partly  from 
the  fact  that  there  were  no  fewer  than  fifty-five 
locks  between  Brussels  and  Charleroi,  we  con- 
cluded that  we  should  travel  by  train  across  the 
frontier,  boats  and  all.  Fifty-five  locks  in  a 
day's  journey  was  pretty  well  tantamount  to 
trudging  the  whole  distance  on  foot,  with  the 
canoes  upon  our  shoulders,  an  object  of  astonish- 
ment to  the  trees  on  the  canal  side,  and  of 
honest  derision  to  all  right-thinking  children. 

To  pass  the  frontier,  even  in  a  train,  is  a  dif- 
ficult matter  for  the  Arethusa.  He  is,  somehow 
or  other,  a  marked  man  for  the  official  eye. 
Wherever  he  journeys,  there  are  the  officers 
gathered  together.  Treaties  are  solemnly  signed, 
foreign  ministers,  ambassadors,  and  consuls 
sit  throned  in  state  from  China  to  Peru,  and  the 
Union  Jack  flutters  on  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Under  these  safeguards,  portly  clergymen, 
school-mistresses,  gentlemen  in  grey  tweed  suits, 
and  all  the  ruck  and  rabble  of  British  touristry 

23 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

pour  unhindered,  ]\Iurray  in  hand,  over  the  rail- 
ways of  the  Continent,  and  yet  the  shin  person 
of  the  Arethusa  is  taken  in  the  meshes,  while 
these  great  fish  go  on  their  way  rejoicing.  If  he 
travels  without  a  passport,  he  is  cast,  without 
any  figure  about  the  matter,  into  noisome  dun- 
geons: if  his  papers  are  in  order,  he  is  suffered 
to  go  his  way,  indeed,  but  not  until  he  has  been 
humiliated  by  a  general  incredulity.  He  is  a 
born  British  subject,  yet  he  has  never  succeeded 
in  persuading  a  single  official  of  his  nationality. 
He  flatters  himself  he  is  indifferent  honest;  yet 
he  is  rarely  known  for  anything  better  than  a 
spy,  and  there  is  no  absurd  and  disreputable 
means  of  livelihood  but  has  been  attributed  to 
him  in  some  heat  of  official  or  popular  dis- 
trust. .  .  . 

For  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  understand  it.  I, 
too,  have  been  knolled  to  church  and  sat  at 
good  men's  feasts,  but  I  bear  no  mark  of  it.  I 
am  as  strange  as  a  Jack  Indian  to  their  official 
spectacles.  I  might  come  from  any  part  of 
the  globe,  it  seems,  except  from  where  I  do. 
My  ancestors  have  laboured  in  vain,  and  the  glor- 
ious Constitution  cannot  protect  me  in  my  walks 
abroad.  It  is  a  great  thing,  believe  me,  to  present 
a  good  normal  type  of  the  nation  you  belong  to. 

Nobody  else  was  asked  for  his  papers  on  the 
way  to  Maubeuge,  but  I  was;  and  although  I 
clung  to  my  rights,  I  had  to  choose  at  last  be- 
tween accepting  the  humiliation  and  being  left 

24 


AT  MAUBEUGE 

behind  by  the  train.     I  was  sorry  to  give  way, 
but  I  wanted  to  get  to  Maubeuge. 

Maubeuge  is  a  fortified  town  with  a  very  good 
inn,  the  Grand  Cerf.  It  seemed  to  be  inhabited 
principally  by  soldiers  and  bagmen;  at  least, 
these  were  all  that  we  saw  except  the  hotel  serv- 
ants. We  had  to  stay  there  some  time,  for 
the  canoes  were  in  no  hurry  to  follow  us,  and 
at  last  stuck  hopelessly  in  the  custom-house 
until  we  went  back  to  liberate  them.  There 
was  nothing  to  do,  nothing  to  see.  We  had  good 
meals,  which  was  a  great  matter,  but  that  was 
all. 

The  Cigarette  was  nearly  taken  up  upon  a 
charge  of  drawing  the  fortifications:  a  feat  of 
which  he  was  hopelessly  incapable.  And  be- 
sides, as  I  suppose  each  belligerent  nation  has  a 
plan  of  the  other's  fortified  places  already,  these 
precautions  are  of  the  nature  of  shutting  the 
stable  door  after  the  steed  is  away.  But  I  have 
no  doubt  they  help  to  keep  up  a  good  spirit  at 
home.  It  is  a  great  thing  if  you  can  persuade 
people  that  they  are  somehow  or  other  partakers 
in  a  mystery.  It  makes  them  feel  bigger.  Even 
the  Freemasons,  who  have  been  shown  up  to 
satiety,  preserve  a  kind  of  pride;  and  not  a 
grocer  among  them,  however  honest,  harmless, 
and  empty-headed  he  may  feel  himself  to  be  at 
bottom,  but  comes  home  from  one  of  their 
ccenacula  with  a  portentous  significance  for 
himself. 

25 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

It  is  an  odd  thing  how  happily  two  people,  if 
there  are  two,  can  live  in  a  place  where  they 
have  no  acquaintance.  I  think  the  spectacle  of 
a  whole  life  in  which  you  have  no  part  paralyses 
personal  desire.  You  are  content  to  become  a 
mere  spectator.  The  baker  stands  in  his  door; 
the  colonel  with  his  three  medals  goes  by  to  the 
cafe  at  night ;  the  troops  drum  and  trumpet  and 
man  the  ramparts,  as  bold  as  so  many  lions. 
It  would  task  language  to  say  how  placidly  you 
behold  all  this.  In  a  place  where  you  have 
taken  some  root  you  are  provoked  out  of  your 
indifference;  you  have  a  hand  in  the  game, — 
your  friends  are  fighting  with  the  army.  But 
in  a  strange  town,  not  small  enough  to  grow 
too  soon  familiar,  nor  so  large  as  to  have  laid 
itself  out  for  travellers,  you  stand  so  far  apart 
from  the  business  that  you  positively  forget  it 
would  be  possible  to  go  nearer ;  you  have  so  little 
human  interest  around  you  that  you  do  not  re- 
member yourself  to  be  a  man.  Perhaps  in  a 
very  short  time  you  would  be  one  no  longer. 
Gymnosophists  go  into  a  wood  with  all  nature 
seething  around  them,  with  romance  on  every 
side;  it  would  be  much  more  to  the  purpose  if 
they  took  up  their  abode  in  a  dull  country  town 
where  they  should  see  just  so  much  of  humanity 
as  to  keep  them  from  desiring  more,  and  only 
the  stale  externals  of  man's  life.  These  ex- 
ternals are  as  dead  to  us  as  so  many  formalities, 
and  speak  a  dead  language  in  our  eyes  and  ears. 

26 


AT  MAUBEUGE 

They  have  no  more  meaning  than  an  oath  or  a 
salutation.  We  are  so  much  accustomed  to  see 
married  couples  going  to  church  of  a  Sunday  that 
we  have  clean  forgotten  what  they  represent; 
and  novelists  are  driven  to  rehabilitate  adultery, 
no  less,  when  they  wish  to  show  us  what  a  beau- 
tiful thing  it  is  for  a  man  and  a  woman  to  live 
for  each  other. 

One  person  in  Maubeuge,  however,  showed 
me  something  more  than  his  outside.  That 
was  the  driver  of  the  hotel  omnibus:  a  mean 
enough  looking  little  man,  as  well  as  I  can  re- 
member, but  with  a  spark  of  something  human 
in  his  soul.  He  had  heard  of  our  little  journey, 
and  came  to  me  at  once  in  envious  sympathy. 
How  he  longed  to  travel!  he  told  me.  How  he 
longed  to  be  somewhere  else,  and  see  the  round 
world  before  he  went  into  the  grave!  "Here 
I  am,"  said  he.  "I  drive  to  the  station.  Well. 
And  then  I  drive  back  again  to  the  hotel.  And 
so  on  every  day  and  all  the  week  round.  My 
God,  is  that  life?"  I  could  not  say  I  thought  it 
was — for  him.  He  pressed  me  to  tell  him  where 
I  had  been,  and  where  I  hoped  to  go ;  and  as  he 
listened,  I  declare  the  fellow  sighed.  Might 
not  this  have  been  a  brave  African  traveller, 
or  gone  to  the  Indies  after  Drake  ?  But  it  is  an 
evil  age  for  the  gypsily  inclined  among  men. 
He  who  can  sit  squarest  on  a  three-legged  stool, 
he  it  is  who  has  the  wealth  and  glory. 

I  wonder  if  my  friend  is  still  driving  the  om- 
27 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

nibus  for  the  Grand  Cerf !  Not  very  likely, 
I  believe;  for  I  think  he  was  on  the  eve  of  mu- 
tiny when  we  passed  through,  and  perhaps  our 
passage  determined  him  for  good.  Better  a 
thousand  times  that  he  should  be  a  tramp,  and 
mend  pots  and  pans  by  the  wayside,  and  sleep 
under  trees,  and  see  the  dawn  and  the  sunset 
every  day  above  a  new  horizon.  I  think  I 
hear  you  say  that  it  is  a  respectable  position 
to  drive  an  omnibus?  Very  well.  What  right 
has  he  who  likes  it  not  to  keep  those  who  would 
like  it  dearly  out  of  this  respectable  position? 
Suppose  a  dish  were  not  to  my  taste,  and  you 
told  me  that  it  was  a  favourite  among  the  rest 
of  the  company,  what  should  I  conclude  from 
that?  Not  to  finish  the  dish  against  my  stom- 
ach, I  suppose. 

Respectability  is  a  very  good  thing  in  its  way, 
but  it  does  not  rise  superior  to  all  considerations. 
I  would  not  for  a  moment  venture  to  hint  that 
it  was  a  matter  of  taste ;  but  I  think  I  will  go  as 
far  as  this:  that  if  a  position  is  admittedly  un- 
kind, uncomfortable,  unnecessary,  and  super- 
fluously useless,  although  it  were  as  respectable 
as  the  Church  of  England,  the  sooner  a  man  is 
out  of  it,  the  better  for  himself,  and  all  concerned. 


28 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

TO      QUARTES 

4  BOUT  three  in  the  afternoon  the  whole  es- 
_TJL  tablishment  of  the  Grand  Cerf  accompanied 
us  to  the  water's  edge.  The  man  of  the  omnibus 
was  there  with  haggard  eyes.  Poor  cage-bird! 
Do  I  not  remember  the  time  when  I  myself 
haunted  the  station,  to  watch  train  after  train 
carry  its  complement  of  freemen  into  the  night, 
and  read  the  names  of  distant  places  on  the 
time-bills  with  indescribable  longings? 

We  were  not  clear  of  the  fortifications  before 
the  rain  began.  The  wind  was  contrary,  and 
blew  in  furious  gusts;  nor  were  the  aspects  of 
nature  any  more  clement  than  the  doings  of  the 
sky.  For  we  passed  through  a  blighted  country, 
sparsely  covered  with  brush,  but  handsomely 
enough  diversified  with  factory  chimneys.  We 
landed  in  a  soiled  meadow  among  some  pollards, 
and  there  smoked  a  pipe  in  a  flaw  of  fair  weather. 
But  the  wind  blew  so  hard  we  could  get  little 
else  to  smoke.  There  were  no  natural  objects 
in  the  neighbourhood,  but  some  sordid  workshops. 

29 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

A  group  of  children,  headed  by  a  tall  girl, 
stood  and  watched  us  from  a  little  distance  all 
the  time  we  stayed.  I  heartily  wonder  what 
they  thought  of  us. 

At  Hautmont,  the  lock  was  almost  impassable ; 
the  landing-place  being  steep  and  high,  and  the 
launch  at  a  long  distance.  Near  a  dozen  grimy 
workmen  lent  us  a  hand.  They  refused  any  re- 
ward ;  and,  what  is  much  better,  refused  it  hand- 
somely, without  conveying  any  sense  of  insult. 
"It  is  a  way  we  have  in  our  countryside,"  said 
they.  And  a  very  becoming  way  it  is.  In 
Scotland,  where  also  you  will  get  services  for 
nothing,  the  good  people  reject  your  money  as 
if  you  had  been  trying  to  corrupt  a  voter. 
When  people  take  the  trouble  to  do  dignified 
acts,  it  is  worth  while  to  take  a  little  more,  and 
allow  the  dignity  to  be  common  to  all  concerned. 
But  in  our  brave  Saxon  countries,  where  we 
plod  threescore  years  and  ten  in  the  mud,  and 
the  wind  keeps  singing  in  our  ears  from  birth 
to  burial,  we  do  our  good  and  bad  with  a  high 
hand  and  almost  offensively ;  and  make  even  our 
alms  a  witness-bearing  and  an  act  of  war  against 
the  wrong. 

After  Hautmont,  the  sun  came  forth  again  and 
the  wind  went  down;  and  a  little  paddling  took 
us  beyond  the  iron  works  and  through  a  de- 
lectable land.  The  river  wound  among  low  hills, 
so  that  sometimes  the  sun  was  at  our  backs 
and  sometimes  it  stood  right  ahead,  and  the 

30 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

river  before  us  was  one  sheet  of  intolerable  glory. 
On  either  hand  meadows  and  orchards  bordered, 
with  a  margin  of  sedge  and  water  flowers,  upon 
the  river.  The  hedges  were  of  great  height, 
woven  about  the  trunks  of  hedgerow  elms;  and 
the  fields,  as  they  were  often  very  small,  looked 
like  a  series  of  bowers  along  the  stream.  There 
was  never  any  prospect;  sometimes  a  hill-top 
with  its  trees  would  look  over  the  nearest  hedge- 
row, just  to  make  a  middle  distance  for  the  sky; 
but  that  was  all.  The  heaven  was  bare  of  clouds. 
The  atmosphere,  after  the  rain,  was  of  enchant- 
ing purity.  The  river  doubled  among  the  hill- 
ocks, a  shining  strip  of  mirror  glass;  and  the 
dip  of  the  paddles  set  the  flowers  shaking  along 
the  brink. 

In  the  meadows  wandered  black  and  white 
cattle  fantastically  marked.  One  beast,  with  a 
white  head  and  the  rest  of  the  body  glossy  black, 
came  to  the  edge  to  drink,  and  stood  gravely 
twitching  his  ears  at  me  as  I  went  by,  like  some 
sort  of  preposterous  clergyman  in  a  play.  A 
moment  after  I  heard  a  loud  plunge,  and,  turn- 
ing my  head,  saw  the  clergyman  struggling  to 
shore.  The  bank  had  given  way  under  his  feet. 

Besides  the  cattle,  we  saw  no  living  things 
except  a  few  birds  and  a  great  many  fishermen. 
These  sat  along  the  edges  of  the  meadows,  some- 
times with  one  rod,  sometimes  with  as  many  as 
half  a  score.  They  seemed  stupefied  with  con- 
tentment; and,  when  we  induced  them  to  ex- 

31 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

change  a  few  words  with  us  about  the  weather, 
their  voices  sounded  quiet  and  far  away.  There 
was  a  strange  diversity  of  opinion  among  them 
as  to  the  kind  of  fish  for  which  they  set  their 
lures ;  although  they  were  all  agreed  in  this,  that 
the  river  was  abundantly  supplied.  Where  it 
was  plain  that  no  two  of  them  had  ever  caught 
the  same  kind  of  fish,  we  could  not  help  suspect- 
ing that  perhaps  not  any  one  of  them  had  ever 
caught  a  fish  at  all.  I  hope,  since  the  afternoon 
was  so  lovely,  that  they  were  one  and  all  re- 
warded; and  that  a  silver  booty  went  home 
in  every  basket  for  the  pot.  Some  of  my  friends 
would  cry  shame  on  me  for  this;  but  I  prefer  a 
man,  were  he  only  an  angler,  to  the  bravest 
pair  of  gills  in  all  God's  waters.  I  do  not  affect 
fishes  unless  when  cooked  in  sauce;  whereas  an 
angler  is  an  important  piece  of  river  scenery,  and 
hence  deserves  some  recognition  among  canoe- 
ists. He  can  always  tell  you  where  you  are, 
after  a  mild  fashion ;  and  his  quiet  presence  serves 
to  accentuate  the  solitude  and  stillness,  and 
remind  you  of  the  glittering  citizens  below 
your  boat. 

The  Sambre  turned  so  industriously  to  and  fro 
among  his  little  hills  that  it  was  past  six  before 
we  drew  near  the  lock  at  Quartes.  There  were 
some  children  on  the  tow-path,  with  whom  the 
Cigarette  fell  into  a  chaffing  talk  as  they  ran 
along  beside  us.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  wrarned 
him.  In  vain  I  told  him  in  English  that  boys 

32 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

were  the  most  dangerous  creatures;  and  if  once 
you  began  with  them,  it  was  safe  to  end  in  a 
shower  of  stones.  For  my  own  part,  whenever 
anything  was  addressed  to  me,  I  smiled  gently 
and  shook  my  head,  as  though  I  were  an  in- 
offensive person  inadequately  acquainted  with 
French.  For,  indeed,  I  have  had  such  an  experi- 
ence at  home  that  I  would  sooner  meet  many 
wild  animals  than  a  troop  of  healthy  urchins. 

But  I  was  doing  injustice  to  these  peaceable 
young  Hainaulters.  When  the  Cigarette  went 
off  to  make  inquiries,  I  got  out  upon  the  bank 
to  smoke  a  pipe  and  superintend  the  boats,  and 
became  at  once  the  centre  of  much  amiable  curi- 
osity. The  children  had  been  joined  by  this 
time  by  a  young  woman  and  a  mild  lad  who  had 
lost  an  arm;  and  this  gave  me  more  security. 
When  I  let  slip  my  first  word  or  so  in  French,  a 
little  girl  nodded  her  head  with  a  comical 
grown-up  air.  "Ah,  you  see,"  she  said,  "he 
understands  well  enough  now;  he  was  just  mak- 
ing believe."  And  the  little  group  laughed 
together  very  good-naturedly. 

They  were  much  impressed  when  they  heard 
we  came  from  England;  and  the  little  girl  prof- 
fered the  information  that  England  was  an 
island  "and  a  far  way  from  here — bien  loin 
ifiei." 

"Ay,  you  may  say  that,  a  far  way  from  here," 
said  the  lad  with  one  arm. 

I  was  nearly  as  homesick  as  ever  I  was  in 
33 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

my  life;  they  seemed  to  make  it  such  an  incal- 
culable distance  to  the  place  where  I  first  saw 
the  day. 

They  admired  the  canoes  very  much.  And 
I  observed  one  piece  of  delicacy  in  these  children 
which  is  worthy  of  record.  They  had  been  deaf- 
ening us  for  the  last  hundred  yards  with  peti- 
tions for  a  sail;  ay,  and  they  deafened  us  to  the 
same  tune  next  morning  when  we  came  to  start; 
but  then,  when  the  canoes  were  lying  empty, 
there  was  no  word  of  any  such  petition.  Deli- 
cacy? or  perhaps  a  bit  of  fear  for  the  water  in  so 
crank  a  vessel?  I  hate  cynicism  a  great  deal 
worse  than  I  do  the  devil;  unless  perhaps,  the 
two  were  the  same  thing?  And  yet  'tis  a  good 
tonic;  the  cold  tub  and  bath-towel  of  the  senti- 
ments; and  positively  necessary  to  life  in  cases 
of  advanced  sensibility. 

From  the  boats  they  turned  to  my  costume. 
They  could  not  make  enough  of  my  red  sash ;  and 
my  knife  filled  them  with  awe. 

"They  make  them  like  that  in  England,'* 
said  the  boy  with  one  arm.  I  was  glad  he  did 
not  know  how  badly  we  make  them  in  England 
nowadays.  "They  are  for  people  who  go  away 
to  sea,"  he  added,  "and  to  defend  one's  life 
against  great  fish." 

I  felt  I  was  becoming  a  more  and  more  roman- 
tic figure  to  the  little  group  at  every  word.  And 
so  I  suppose  I  was.  Even  my  pipe,  although 
it  was  an  ordinary  French  clay,  pretty  well 

34 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

"trousered,"  as  they  call  it,  would  have  a  rarity 
in  their  eyes,  as  a  thing  coming  from  so  far  away. 
And  if  my  feathers  were  not  very  fine  in  them- 
selves, they  were  all  from  over  seas.  One  thing 
in  my  outfit,  however,  tickled  them  out  of  all 
politeness;  and  that  was  the  bemired  condition 
of  my  canvas  shoes.  I  suppose  they  were  sure 
the  mud  at  any  rate  was  a  home  product.  The 
little  girl  (who  was  the  genius  of  the  party)  dis- 
played her  own  sabots  in  competition;  and  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  how  gracefully  and 
merrily  she  did  it. 

The  young  woman's  milk-can,  a  great  am- 
phora of  hammered  brass,  stood  some  way  off 
upon  the  sward.  I  was  glad  of  an  opportunity 
to  divert  public  attention  from  myself  and  return 
some  of  the  compliments  I  had  received.  So 
I  admired  it  cordially  both  for  form  and  colour, 
telling  them,  and  very  truly,  that  it  was  as  beau- 
tiful as  gold.  They  were  not  surprised.  The 
things  were  plainly  the  boast  of  the  country-side. 
And  the  children  expatiated  on  the  costliness  of 
these  amphorae,  which  sell  sometimes  as  high  as 
thirty  francs  apiece;  told  me  how  they  were 
carried  on  donkeys,  one  on  either  side  of  the  sad- 
dle, a  brave  caparison  in  themselves;  and  how 
they  were  to  be  seen  all  over  the  district,  and  at 
the  larger  farms  in  great  number  and  of  great 
size. 


35 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

WE    ARE    PEDLARS 

THE  Cigarette  returned  with  good  news. 
There  were  beds  to  be  had  some  ten  min- 
utes' walk  from  where  we  were,  at  a  place  called 
Pont.  We  stowed  the  canoes  in  a  granary,  and 
asked  among  the  children  for  a  guide.  The 
circle  at  once  widened  round  us,  and  our  offers 
of  reward  were  received  in  dispiriting  silence. 
We  were  plainly  a  pair  of  Bluebeards  to  the  chil- 
dren; they  might  speak  to  us  in  public  places, 
and  where  they  had  the  advantage  of  numbers ; 
but  it  was  another  thing  to  venture  off  alone 
with  two  uncouth  and  legendary  characters,  who 
had  dropped  from  the  clouds  upon  their  hamlet 
this  quiet  afternoon,  sashed  and  beknived,  and 
with  a  flavour  of  great  voyages.  The  owner  of 
the  granary  came  to  our  assistance,  singled  out 
one  little  fellow,  and  threatened  him  with  cor- 
poralities;  or  I  suspect  we  should  have  had  to 
find  the  way  for  ourselves.  As  it  was,  he  was 
more  frightened  at  the  granary  man  than  the 
strangers,  having  perhaps  had  some  experience 
of  the  former.  But  I  fancy  his  little  heart  must 

36 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

have  been  going  at  a  fine  rate,  for  he  kept  trot- 
ting at  a  respectful  distance  in  front,  and  looking 
back  at  us  with  scared  eyes.  Not  otherwise 
may  the  children  of  the  young  world  have  guided 
Jove  or  one  of  his  Olympian  compeers  on  an 
adventure. 

A  miry  lane  led  us  up  from  Quartes,  with 
its  church  and  bickering  windmill.  The  hinds 
were  trudging  homewards  from  the  fields.  A 
brisk  little  old  woman  passed  us  by.  She  was 
seated  across  a  donkey  between  a  pair  of  glitter- 
ing milk-cans,  and,  as  she  went,  she  kicked 
jauntily  with  her  heels  upon  the  donkey's  side, 
and  scattered  shrill  remarks  among  the  way- 
farers. It  was  notable  that  none  of  the  tired 
men  took  the  trouble  to  reply.  Our  conductor 
soon  led  us  out  of  the  lane  and  across  country. 
The  sun  had  gone  down,  but  the  west  in  front 
of  us  was  one  lake  of  level  gold.  The  path  wan- 
dered a  while  in  the  open,  and  then  passed  under 
a  trellis  like  a  bower  indefinitely  prolonged.  On 
either  hand  were  shadowy  orchards ;  cottages  lay 
low  among  the  leaves  and  sent  their  smoke  to 
heaven;  every  here  and  there,  in  an  opening, 
appeared  the  great  gold  face  of  the  west. 

I  never  saw  the  Cigarette  in  such  an  idyllic 
frame  of  mind.  He  waxed  positively  lyrical  in 
praise  of  country  scenes.  I  was  little  less  exhil- 
arated myself;  the  mild  air  of  the  evening,  the 
shadows,  the  rich  lights,  and  the  silence  made  a 
symphonious  accompaniment  about  our  walk; 

37 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

and  we  both  determined  to  avoid  towns  for  the 
future  and  sleep  in  hamlets. 

At  last  the  path  went  between  two  houses,  and 
turned  the  party  out  into  a  wide,  muddy  high- 
road, bordered,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
on  either  hand,  by  an  unsightly  village.  The 
houses  stood  well  back,  leaving  a  ribbon  of  waste 
land  on  either  side  of  the  road,  where  there  were 
stacks  of  firewood,  carts,  barrows,  rubbish  heaps, 
and  a  little  doubtful  grass.  Away  on  the  left,  a 
gaunt  tower  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  street. 
What  it  had  been  in  past  ages  I  know  not:  prob- 
ably a  hold  in  time  of  war;  but  nowadays  it 
bore  an  illegible  dial-plate  in  its  upper  parts, 
and  near  the  bottom  an  iron  letter-box. 

The  inn  to  which  we  had  been  recommended 
at  Quartes  was  full,  or  else  the  landlady  did  not 
like  our  looks.  I  ought  to  say,  that  with  our 
long,  damp  india-rubber  bags,  we  presented 
rather  a  doubtful  type  of  civilisation:  like  rag- 
and-bone  men,  the  Cigarette  imagined.  "These 
gentlemen  are  pedlars?"  —Ces  messieurs  sont  des 
marchands? — asked  the  landlady.  And  then, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  which  I  suppose 
she  thought  superfluous  in  so  plain  a  case,  recom- 
mended us  to  a  butcher  who  lived  hard  by  the 
tower  and  took  in  travellers  to  lodge. 

Thither  went  we.  But  the  butcher  was  flit- 
ting, and  all  his  beds  were  taken  down.  Or  else 
he  didn't  like  our  look.  As  a  parting  shot,  we 
had,  "These  gentlemen  are  pedlars?" 

38 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

It  began  to  grow  dark  in  earnest.  We  could 
no  longer  distinguish  the  faces  of  the  people  who 
passed  us  by  with  an  inarticulate  good-evening. 
And  the  householders  of  Pont  seemed  very 
economical  with  their  oil,  for  we  saw  not  a  single 
window  lighted  in  all  that  long  village.  I  be- 
lieve it  is  the  longest  village  in  the  world;  but  I 
dare  say  in  our  predicament  every  space  counted 
three  times  over.  We  were  much  cast  down 
when  we  came  to  the  last  auberge,  and,  looking 
in  at  the  dark  door,  asked  timidly  if  we  could 
sleep  there  for  the  night.  A  female  voice  as- 
sented, in  no  very  friendly  tones.  We  clapped 
the  bags  down  and  found  our  way  to  chairs. 

The  place  was  in  total  darkness,  save  a  red 
glow  in  the  chinks  and  ventilators  of  the  stove. 
But  now  the  landlady  lit  a  lamp  to  see  her  new 
guests;  I  suppose  the  darkness  was  what  saved 
us  another  expulsion,  for  I  cannot  say  she  looked 
gratified  at  our  appearance.  We  were  in  a  large, 
bare  apartment,  adorned  with  two  allegorical 
prints  of  Music  and  Painting,  and  a  copy  of  the 
law  against  Public  Drunkenness.  On  one  side 
there  was  a  bit  of  a  bar,  with  some  half-a-dozen 
bottles.  Two  labourers  sat  waiting  supper,  in 
attitudes  of  extreme  weariness;  a  plain-looking 
lass  bustled  about  with  a  sleepy  child  of  two,  and 
the  landlady  began  to  derange  the  pots  upon  the 
stove  and  set  some  beefsteak  to  grill. 

"These  gentlemen  are  pedlars?"  she  asked 
sharply;  and  that  was  all  the  conversation  forth- 

39 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

coining.  We  began  to  think  we  might  be  ped- 
lars, after  all.  I  never  knew  a  population  with 
so  narrow  a  range  of  conjecture  as  the  innkeepers 
of  Pont-sur-Sambre.  But  manners  and  bearings 
have  not  a  wider  currency  than  bank-notes. 
You  have  only  to  get  far  enough  out  of  your 
beat,  and  all  your  accomplished  airs  will  go  for 
nothing.  These  Hainaulters  could  see  no  differ- 
ence between  us  and  the  average  pedlar.  Indeed, 
we  had  some  grounds  for  reflection  while  the 
steak  was  getting  ready,  to  see  how  perfectly 
they  accepted  us  at  their  own  valuation,  and 
how  our  best  politeness  and  best  efforts  at  en- 
tertainment seemed  to  fit  quite  suitably  with  the 
character  of  packmen.  At  least  it  seemed  a  good 
account  of  the  profession  in  France,  that  even 
before  such  judges  we  could  not  beat  them  at 
our  own  weapons. 

At  last  we  were  called  to  table.  The  two 
hinds  (and  one  of  them  looked  sadly  worn  and 
white  in  the  face,  as  though  sick  with  over-work 
and  under-feeding)  supped  off  a  single  plate  of 
some  sort  of  bread-berry,  some  potatoes  in  their 
jackets,  a  small  cup  of  coffee  sweetened  with 
sugar  candy,  and  one  tumbler  of  swipes.  The 
landlady,  her  son,  and  the  lass  aforesaid  took  the 
same.  Our  meal  was  quite  a  banquet  by  com- 
parison. We  had  some  beefsteak,  not  so  tender 
as  it  might  have  been,  some  of  the  potatoes,  some 
cheese,  an  extra  glass  of  the  swipes,  and  white 
sugar  in  our  coffee. 

40 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

You  see  what  it  is  to  be  a  gentleman, — I  beg 
your  pardon,  what  it  is  to  be  a  pedlar.  It  had 
not  before  occurred  to  me  that  a  pedlar  was  a 
great  man  in  a  labourer's  ale-house;  but  now  that 
I  had  to  enact  the  part  for  the  evening,  I  found 
that  so  it  was.  He  has  in  his  hedge  quarters 
somewhat  the  same  pre-eminency  as  the  man  who 
takes  a  private  parlour  in  a  hotel.  The  more  you 
look  into  it,  the  more  infinite  are  the  class  distinc- 
tions among  men ;  and  possibly,  by  a  happy  dis- 
pensation there  is  no  one  at  all  at  the  bottom  of 
the  scale;  no  one  but  can  find  some  superiority 
over  somebody  else,  to  keep  up  his  pride  withal. 

We  were  displeased  enough  with  our  fare. 
Particularly  the  Cigarette;  for  I  tried  to  make 
believe  that  I  was  amused  with  the  adventure, 
tough  beefsteak  and  all.  According  to  the 
Lucretian  maxim,  our  steak  should  have  been 
flavoured  by  the  look  of  the  other  people's  bread- 
berry  ;  but  we  did  not  find  it  so  in  practice.  You 
may  have  a  head  knowledge  that  other  people 
live  more  poorly  than  yourself,  but  it  is  not 
agreeable — I  was  going  to  say,  it  is  against  the 
etiquette  of  the  universe — to  sit  at  the  same 
table  and  pick  your  own  superior  diet  from 
among  their  crusts.  I  had  not  seen  such  a  thing 
done  since  the  greedy  boy  at  school  with  his 
birthday  cake.  It  was  odious  enough  to  wit- 
ness, I  could  remember ;  and  I  had  never  thought 
to  play  the  part  myself.  But  there,  again,  you 
see  what  it  is  to  be  a  pedlar. 

41 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  poorer  classes  in 
our  country  are  much  more  charitably  disposed 
than  their  superiors  in  wealth.  And  I  fancy  it 
must  arise  a  great  deal  from  the  comparative 
indistinction  of  the  easy  and  the  not  so  easy  in 
these  ranks.  A  workman  or  a  pedlar  cannot 
shutter  himself  off  from  his  less  comfortable 
neighbours.  If  he  treats  himself  to  a  luxury, 
he  must  do  it  in  the  face  of  a  dozen  who  can- 
not. And  what  should  more  directly  lead  to 
charitable  thoughts?  .  .  .  Thus  the  poor 
man,  camping  out  in  life,  sees  it  as  it  is,  and 
knows  that  every  mouthful  he  puts  in  his  belly 
has  been  wrenched  out  of  the  fingers  of  the 
hungry. 

But  at  a  certain  stage  of  prosperity,  as  in  a 
balloon  ascent,  the  fortunate  person  passes 
through  a  zone  of  clouds,  and  sublunary  matters 
are  thenceforward  hidden  from  his  view.  He 
sees  nothing  but  the  heavenly  bodies,  all  in 
admirable  order  and  positively  as  good  as  new. 
He  finds  himself  surrounded  in  the  most  touch- 
ing manner  by  the  attentions  of  Providence,  and 
compares  himself  involuntarily  with  the  lilies  and 
the  skylarks.  He  does  not  precisely  sing,  of 
course;  but  then  he  looks  so  unassuming  in  his 
open  landau!  If  all  the  world  dined  at  one 
table,  this  philosophy  would  meet  with  some 
rude  knocks. 


42 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

THE    TRAVELLING    MERCHANT 

EKE  the  lackeys  in  Moliere's  farce,  when  the 
true  nobleman  broke  in  on  their  high  life 
below  stairs,  we  were  destined  to  be  confronted 
with  a  real  pedlar.  To  make  the  lesson  still  more 
poignant  for  fallen  gentlemen  like  us,  he  was  a 
pedlar  of  infinitely  more  consideration  than  the 
sort  of  scurvy  fellows  we  were  taken  for;  like  a 
lion  among  mice,  or  a  ship  of  war  bearing  down 
upon  two  cock-boats.  Indeed,  he  did  not  de- 
serve the  name  of  pedlar  at  all;  he  was  a  travel- 
ling merchant. 

I  suppose  it  was  about  half-past  eight  when 
this  worthy,  Monsieur  Hector  Gilliard,  of  Mau- 
beuge,  turned  up  at  the  ale-house  door  in  a  tilt 
cart  drawn  by  a  donkey,  and  cried  cheerily  on 
the  inhabitants.  He  was  a  lean,  nervous  flib- 
bertigibbet of  a  man,  with  something  the  look 
of  an  actor  and  something  the  look  of  a  horse- 
jockey.  He  had  evidently  prospered  without 
any  of  the  favours  of  education,  for  he  adhered 
with  stern  simplicity  to  the  masculine  gender, 
and  in  the  course  of  the  evening  passed  off  some 

43 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

fancy  futures  in  a  very  florid  style  of  architec- 
ture. With  him  came  his  wife,  a  comely  young 
woman,  with  her  hair  tied  in  a  yellow  kerchief, 
and  their  son,  a  little  fellow  of  four,  in  a  blouse 
and  military  kepi.  It  was  notable  that  the  child 
was  many  degrees  better  dressed  than  either  of 
the  parents.  We  were  informed  he  was  already 
at  a  boarding-school;  but  the  holidays  having 
just  commenced,  he  was  off  to  spend  them  with 
his  parents  on  a  cruise.  An  enchanting  holiday 
occupation,  was  it  not?  to  travel  all  day  with 
father  and  mother  in  the  tilt  cart  full  of  count- 
less treasures;  the  green  country  rattling  by  on 
either  side,  and  the  children  in  all  the  villages 
contemplating  him  with  envy  and  wonder.  It  is 
better  fun,  during  the  holidays,  to  be  the  son  of 
a  travelling  merchant,  than  son  and  heir  to  the 
greatest  cotton  spinner  in  creation.  And  as  for 
being  a  reigning  prince, — indeed,  I  never  saw 
one  if  it  was  not  Master  Gilliard! 

While  M.  Hector  and  the  son  of  the  house  were 
putting  up  the  donkey  and  getting  all  the  valua- 
bles under  lock  and  key,  the  landlady  warmed 
up  the  remains  of  our  beefsteak  and  fried  the 
cold  potatoes  in  slices,  and  Madame  Gilliard  set 
herself  to  waken  the  boy,  who  had  come  far  that 
day,  and  was  peevish  and  dazzled  by  the  light. 
He  was  no  sooner  awake  than  he  began  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  supper  by  eating  galette,  unripe 
pears,  and  cold  potatoes — with,  so  far  as  I  could 
judge,  positive  benefit  to  his  appetite. 

44 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

The  landlady,  fired  with  motherly  emulation, 
awoke  her  own  little  girl,  and  the  two  children 
were  confronted.  Master  Gilliard  looked  at  her 
for  a  moment,  very  much  as  a  dog  looks  at  his 
own  reflection  in  a  mirror  before  he  turns  away. 
He  was  at  that  time  absorbed  in  the  galette. 
His  mother  seemed  crestfallen  that  he  should  dis- 
play so  little  inclination  towards  the  other  sex, 
and  expressed  her  disappointment  with  some 
candour  and  a  very  proper  reference  to  the  in- 
fluence of  years. 

Sure  enough  a  time  will  come  when  he  will 
pay  more  attention  to  the  girls,  and  think  a  great 
deal  less  of  his  mother ;  let  us  hope  she  will  like 
it  as  well  as  she  seemed  to  fancy.  But  it  is  odd 
enough;  the  very  women  who  profess  most  con- 
tempt for  mankind  as  a  sex,  seem  to  find  even  its 
ugliest  particulars  rather  lively  and  high-minded 
in  their  own  sons. 

The  little  girl  looked  longer  and  with  more 
interest,  probably  because  she  was  in  her  own 
house,  while  he  was  a  traveller  and  accustomed 
to  strange  sights.  And,  besides,  there  was  no 
galette  in  the  case  with  her. 

All  the  time  of  supper  there  was  nothing 
spoken  of  but  my  young  lord.  The  two  parents 
were  both  absurdly  fond  of  their  child.  Mon- 
sieur kept  insisting  on  his  sagacity ;  how  he  knew 
all  the  children  at  school  by  name,  and  when  this 
utterly  failed  on  trial,  how  he  was  cautious  and 
exact  to  a  strange  degree,  and  if  asked  anything, 

45 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

he  would  sit  and  think — and  think,  and  if  he  did 
not  know  it,  "my  faith,  he  wouldn't  tell  you  at 
all — mafoi,  il  ne  vous  le  dim  pas."  Which  is  cer- 
tainly a  very  high  degree  of  caution.  At  inter- 
vals, M.  Hector  would  appeal  to  his  wife,  with 
his  mouth  full  of  beefsteak,  as  to  the  little  fel- 
low's age  at  such  or  such  a  time  when  he  had 
said  or  done  something  memorable;  and  I  no- 
ticed that  Madame  usually  pooh-poohed  these 
inquiries.  She  herself  was  not  boastful  in  her 
vein;  but  she  never  had  her  fill  of  caressing  the 
child;  and  she  seemed  to  take  a  gentle  pleasure 
in  recalling  all  that  was  fortunate  in  his  little  ex- 
istence. No  school-boy  could  have  talked  more 
of  the  holidays  which  were  just  beginning  and 
less  of  the  black  school-time  which  must  inevit- 
ably follow  after.  She  showed,  with  a  pride  per- 
haps partly  mercantile  in  origin,  his  pockets  pre- 
posterously swollen  with  tops  and  whistles  and 
string.  When  she  called  at  a  house  in  the  way 
of  business,  it  appeared,  he  kept  her  company; 
and,  whenever  a  sale  was  made,  received  a  sou 
out  of  the  profit.  Indeed,  they  spoiled  him 
vastly,  these  two  good  people.  But  they  had 
an  eye  to  his  manners,  for  all  that,  and  reproved 
him  for  some  little  faults  in  breeding  which  oc- 
curred from  time  to  time  during  supper. 

On  the  whole,  I  was  not  much  hurt  at  being 
taken  for  a  pedlar.  I  might  think  that  I  ate 
with  greater  delicacy,  or  that  my  mistakes  in 
French  belonged  to  a  different  order;  but  it  was 

46 


PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 

plain  that  these  distinctions  would  be  thrown 
away  upon  the  landlady  and  the  two  labourers. 
In  all  essential  things  we  and  the  Gilliards  cut 
very  much  the  same  figure  in  the  ale-house  kitch- 
en. M.  Hector  was  more  at  home,  indeed,  and 
took  a  higher  tone  with  the  world ;  but  that  was 
explicable  on  the  ground  of  his  driving  a  donkey- 
cart,  while  we  poor  bodies  tramped  afoot.  I 
dare  say  the  rest  of  the  company  thought  us 
dying  with  envy,  though  in  no  ill  sense  to  be  as 
far  up  in  the  profession  as  the  new  arrival. 

And  of  one  thing  I  am  sure;  that  everyone 
thawed  and  became  more  humanised  and  con- 
versible  as  soon  as  these  innocent  people  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  I  would  not  very  readily  trust 
the  travelling  merchant  with  any  extravagant 
sum  of  money,  but  I  am  sure  his  heart  was  in  the 
right  place.  In  this  mixed  world,  if  you  can 
find  one  or  two  sensible  places  in  a  man;  above 
all,  if  you  should  find  a  whole  family  living  to- 
gether on  such  pleasant  terms,  you  may  surely 
be  satisfied,  and  take  the  rest  for  granted;  or, 
what  is  a  great  deal  better,  boldly  make  up  your 
mind  that  you  can  do  perfectly  well  without  the 
rest,  and  that  ten  thousand  bad  traits  cannot 
make  a  single  good  one  any  the  less  good. 

It  was  getting  late.  M.  Hector  lit  a  stable 
lantern  and  went  off  to  his  cart  for  some  arrange- 
ments, and  my  young  gentleman  proceeded  to 
divest  himself  of  the  better  part  of  his  raiment 
and  play  gymnastics  on  his  mother's  lap,  and 

47 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

thence  on  to  the  floor,  with  accompaniment  of 
laughter. 

"Are  you  going  to  sleep  alone?"  asked  the 
servant  lass. 

"There's  little  fear  of  that,"  says  Master 
Gilliard. 

"You  sleep  alone  at  school,"  objected  his 
mother.  "Come,  come,  you  must  be  a  man." 

But  he  protested  that  school  was  a  different 
matter  from  the  holidays;  that  there  were  dor- 
mitories at  school;  and  silenced  the  discussion 
with  kisses:  his  mother  smiling,  no  one  better 
pleased  than  she. 

There  certainly  was,  as  he  phrased  it,  very 
little  fear  that  he  should  sleep  alone,  for  there 
was  but  one  bed  for  the  trio.  We,  on  our  part, 
had  firmly  protested  against  one  man's  accom- 
modation for  two;  and  we  had  a  double-bedded 
pen  in  the  loft  of  the  house,  furnished,  beside 
the  beds,  with  exactly  three  hat-pegs  and  one 
table.  There  was  not  so  much  as  a  glass  of 
water.  But  the  window  would  open,  by  good 
fortune. 

Some  time  before  I  fell  asleep  the  loft  was  full 
of  the  sound  of  mighty  snoring;  the  Gilliards 
and  the  labourers  and  the  people  of  the  inn,  all 
at  it,  I  suppose,  with  one  consent.  The  young 
moon  outside  shone  very  clearly  over  Pont-sur- 
Sambre,  and  down  upon  the  ale-house  where  all 
we  pedlars  were  abed. 


48 


ON    THE    SAMBRE    CANALISED 

TO    LANDRECIES 

IN  the  morning,  when  we  came  downstairs 
the  landlady  pointed  out  to  us  two  pails  of 
water  behind  the  street  door.  "  Voila  de  I'eau 
pour  vous  debarbouiller,"  says  she.  And  so  there 
we  made  a  shift  to  wash  ourselves,  while  Ma- 
dame Gilliard  brushed  the  family  boots  on  the 
outer  doorstep,  and  M.  Hector,  whistling  cheer- 
ily, arranged  some  small  goods  for  the  day's  cam- 
paign in  a  portable  chest  of  drawers,  which 
formed  a  part  of  his  baggage.  Meanwhile  the 
child  was  letting  off  Waterloo  crackers  all  over 
the  floor. 

I  wonder,  by  the  by,  what  they  call  Waterloo 
crackers  in  France;  perhaps  Austerlitz  crackers. 
There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  point  of  view.  Do 
you  remember  the  Frenchman  who,  travelling  by 
way  of  Southampton,  was  put  down  in  Waterloo 
Station,  and  had  to  drive  across  Waterloo  Bridge? 
He  had  a  mind  to  go  home  again,  it  seems. 

Pont  itself  is  on  the  river,  but  whereas  it  is  ten 
minutes'  walk  from  Quartes  by  dry  land,  it  is  six 
weary  kilometres  by  water.  We  left  our  bags 

49 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

at  the  inn  and  walked  to  our  canoes  through  the 
wet  orchards,  unencumbered.  Some  of  the  chil- 
dren were  there  to  see  us  off,  but  we  were  no 
longer  the  mysterious  beings  of  the  night  before. 
A  departure  is  much  less  romantic  than  an  un- 
explained arrival  in  the  golden  evening.  Al- 
though we  might  be  greatly  taken  at  a  ghost's 
first  appearance,  wre  should  behold  him  vanish 
with  comparative  equanimity. 

The  good  folks  of  the  inn  at  Pont,  when  we 
called  there  for  the  bags,  were  overcome  with 
marvelling.  At  the  sight  of  these  two  dainty 
little  boats,  with  a  fluttering  Union  Jack  on  each, 
and  all  the  varnish  shining  from  the  sponge,  they 
began  to  perceive  that  they  had  entertained 
angels  unawares.  The  landlady  stood  upon  the 
bridge,  probably  lamenting  she  had  charged  so 
little;  the  son  ran  to  and  fro,  and  called  out  the 
neighbours  to  enjoy  the  sight;  and  we  paddled 
away  from  quite  a  crowd  of  rapt  observers. 
These  gentlemen  pedlars,  indeed!  Now  you  see 
their  quality  too  late. 

The  whole  day  was  showery,  with  occasional 
drenching  plumps.  We  were  soaked  to  the  skin, 
then  partially  dried  in  the  sun,  then  soaked  once 
more.  But  there  were  some  calm  intervals,  and 
one  notably,  when  we  were  skirting  the  forest  of 
Mormal,  a  sinister  name  to  the  ear,  but  a  place 
most  gratifying  to  sight  and  smell.  It  looked 
solemn  along  the  river-side,  drooping  its  boughs 
into  the  water,  and  piling  them  up  aloft  into  a 

50 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

wall  of  leaves.  What  is  a  forest  but  a  city  of 
nature's  own,  full  of  hardy  and  innocuous  living 
things,  where  there  is  nothing  dead  and  noth- 
ing made  with  the  hands,  but  the  citizens  them- 
selves are  the  houses  and  public  monuments? 
There  is  nothing  so  much  alive  and  yet  so  quiet 
as  a  woodland;  and  a  pair  of  people,  swinging 
past  in  canoes,  feel  very  small  and  bustling  by 
comparison. 

And  surely,  of  all  smells  in  the  world,  the  smell 
of  many  trees  is  the  sweetest  and  most  fortifying. 
The  sea  has  a  rude  pistolling  sort  of  odour,  that 
takes  you  in  the  nostrils  like  snuff,  and  carries 
with  it  a  fine  sentiment  of  open  water  and  tall 
ships ;  but  the  smell  of  a  forest,  which  comes  near- 
est to  this  in  tonic  quality,  surpasses  it  by  many 
degrees  in  the  quality  of  softness.  Again,  the 
smell  of  the  sea  has  little  variety,  but  the  smell 
of  a  forest  is  infinitely  changeful;  it  varies  with 
the  hour  of  the  day,  not  in  strength  merely,  but 
in  character;  and  the  different  sorts  of  trees,  as 
you  go  from  one  zone  of  the  wood  to  another, 
seem  to  live  among  different  kinds  of  atmosphere. 
Usually  the  rosin  of  the  fir  predominates.  But 
some  woods  are  more  coquettish  in  their  habits; 
and  the  breath  of  the  forest  Mormal,  as  it  came 
aboard  upon  us  that  showery  afternoon,  was 
perfumed  with  nothing  less  delicate  than  sweet- 
brier. 

I  wish  our  way  had  always  lain  among  woods. 
Trees  are  the  most  civil  society.  An  old  oak 

51 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

that  has  been  growing  where  he  stands  since  be- 
fore the  Reformation,  taller  than  many  spires, 
more  stately  than  the  greater  part  of  mountains, 
and  yet  a  living  thing,  liable  to  sicknesses  and 
death,  like  you  and  me:  is  not  that  in  itself  a 
speaking  lesson  in  history?  But  acres  on  acres 
full  of  such  patriarchs  contiguously  rooted,  their 
green  tops  billowing  in  the  wind,  their  stalwart 
younglings  pushing  up  about  their  knees ;  a  whole 
forest,  healthy  and  beautiful,  giving  colour  to 
the  light,  giving  perfume  to  the  air;  what  is  this 
but  the  most  imposing  piece  in  nature's  reper- 
tory? Heine  wished  to  lie  like  Merlin  under  the 
oaks  of  Broceliande.  I  should  not  be  satisfied 
with  one  tree;  but  if  the  wood  grew  together  like 
a  banyan  grove,  I  would  be  buried  under  the  tap- 
root of  the  whole;  my  parts  should  circulate 
from  oak  to  oak;  and  my  consciousness  should  be 
diffused  abroad  in  all  the  forest,  and  give  a  com- 
mon heart  to  that  assembly  of  green  spires,  so 
that  it,  also,  might  rejoice  in  its  own  loveliness 
and  dignity.  I  think  I  feel  a  thousand  squirrels 
leaping  from  bough  to  bough  in  my  vast  mauso- 
leum ;  and  the  birds  and  the  winds  merrily  cours- 
ing over  its  uneven,  leafy  surface. 

Alas!  the  forest  of  Mormal  is  only  a  little 
bit  of  a  wood,  and  it  was  but  for  a  little  way 
that  we  skirted  by  its  boundaries.  And  the 
rest  of  the  time  the  rain  kept  coming  in  squirts 
and  the  wind  in  squalls,  until  one's  heart  grew 
weary  of  such  fitful,  scolding  weather.  It  was 

52 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

odd  how  the  showers  began  when  we  had  to 
carry  the  boats  over  a  lock  and  must  expose  our 
legs.  They  always  did.  This  is  a  sort  of  thing 
that  readily  begets  a  personal  feeling  against 
nature.  There  seems  no  reason  why  the  shower 
should  not  come  five  minutes  before  or  five  min- 
utes after,  unless  you  suppose  an  intention  to 
affront  you.  The  Cigarette  had  a  mackintosh 
which  put  him  more  or  less  above  these  con- 
trarieties. But  I  had  to  bear  the  brunt  uncov- 
ered. I  began  to  remember  that  nature  was  a 
woman.  My  companion,  in  a  rosier  temper, 
listened  with  great  satisfaction  to  my  jeremiads, 
and  ironically  concurred.  He  instanced,  as  a 
cognate  matter,  the  action  of  the  tides,  "which," 
said  he,  "was  altogether  designed  for  the  con- 
fusion of  canoeists,  except  in  so  far  as  it  was  cal- 
culated to  minister  to  a  barren  vanity  on  the 
part  of  the  moon." 

At  the  last  lock,  some  little  way  out  of  Lan- 
drecies,  I  refused  to  go  any  farther;  and  sat  in  a 
drift  of  rain  by  the  side  of  the  bank,  to  have  a  re- 
viving pipe.  A  vivacious  old  man,  whom  I  took 
to  have  been  the  devil,  drew  near,  and  questioned 
me  about  our  journey.  In  the  fulness  of  my 
heart  I  laid  bare  our  plans  before  him.  He  said 
it  was  the  silliest  enterprise  that  ever  he  heard 
of.  Why,  did  I  not  know,  he  asked  me,  that  it 
was  nothing  but  locks,  locks,  locks,  the  whole 
way?  not  to  mention  that,  at  this  season  of  the 
year,  we  would  find  the  Oise  quite  dry?  "Get 

53 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

into  a  train,  my  little  young  man,"  said  he,  "and 
go  you  away  home  to  your  parents."  I  was  so 
astounded  at  the  man's  malice  that  I  could  only 
stare  at  him  in  silence.  A  tree  would  never  have 
spoken  to  me  like  this.  At  last  I  got  out  with 
some  words.  We  had  come  from  Antwerp  al- 
ready, I  told  him,  which  was  a  good  long  way; 
and  we  should  do  the  rest  in  spite  of  him.  Yes, 
I  said,  if  there  were  no  other  reason,  I  would  do 
it  now,  just  because  he  had  dared  to  say  we  could 
not.  The  pleasant  old  gentleman  looked  at  me 
sneeringly,  made  an  allusion  to  my  canoe,  and 
marched  off,  wagging  his  head. 

I  was  still  inwardly  fuming  when  up  came  a 
pair  of  young  fellows,  who  imagined  I  was  the 
Cigarettes  servant,  on  a  comparison,  I  suppose, 
of  my  bare  jersey  with  the  other's  mackintosh, 
and  asked  me  many  questions  about  my  place 
and  my  master's  character.  I  said  he  was  a 
good  enough  fellow,  but  had  this  absurd  voyage 
on  the  head.  "  Oh,  no,  no,"  said  one,  "you  must 
not  say  that;  it  is  not  absurd;  it  is  very  cour- 
ageous of  him."  I  believe  these  were  a  couple 
of  angels  sent  to  give  me  heart  again.  It  was 
truly  fortifying  to  reproduce  all  the  old  man's 
insinuations,  as  if  they  were  original  to  me  in  my 
character  of  a  malcontent  footman,  and  have 
them  brushed  away  like  so  many  flies  by  these 
admirable  young  men. 

When  I  recounted  this  affair  to  the  Cigarette, 
"  They  must  have  a  curious  idea  of  how  English 

54 


ON  THE  SAMBRE  CANALISED 

servants   behave,"   says   he,    dryly,    "for   you 
treated  me  like  a  brute  beast  at  the  lock." 

I  was  a  good  deal  mortified;  but  my  temper 
had  suffered,  it  is  a  fact. 


55 


AT    LANDRECIES 

A  T  Landrecies  the  rain  still  fell  and  the  wind 
JL\.  still  blew;  but  we  found  a  double-bed- 
ded room  with  plenty  of  furniture,  real  water- 
jugs  with  real  water  in  them,  and  dinner,  a 
real  dinner,  not  innocent  of  real  wine.  After 
having  been  a  pedlar  for  one  night,  and  a  butt 
for  the  elements  during  the  whole  of  the  next 
day,  these  comfortable  circumstances  fell  on  my 
heart  like  sunshine.  There  was  an  English 
fruiterer  at  dinner,  travelling  with  a  Belgian 
fruiterer;  in  the  evening  at  the  cafe  we  watched 
our  compatriot  drop  a  good  deal  of  money  at 
corks,  and  I  don't  know  why,  but  this  pleased  us. 
It  turned  out  that  we  were  to  see  more  of 
Landrecies  than  we  expected;  for  the  weather 
next  day  was  simply  bedlamite.  It  is  not  the 
place  one  would  have  chosen  for  a  day's  rest, 
for  it  consists  almost  entirely  of  fortifications. 
Within  the  ramparts,  a  few  blocks  of  houses,  a 
long  row  of  barracks,  and  a  church  figure,  with 
what  countenance  they  may,  as  the  town. 
There  seems  to  be  no  trade,  and  a  shop-keeper 
from  whom  I  bought  a  six-penny  flint  and  steel 

56 


AT  LANDRECIES 

was  so  much  affected  that  he  filled  my  pockets 
with  spare  flints  into  the  bargain.  The  only 
public  buildings  that  had  any  interest  for  us 
were  the  hotel  and  the  cafe.  But  we  visited 
the  church.  There  lies  Marshal  Clarke.  But 
as  neither  of  us  had  ever  heard  of  that  military 
hero,  we  bore  the  associations  of  the  spot  with 
fortitude. 

In  all  garrison  towns,  guard-calls,  and  reveilles, 
and  suchlike,  make  a  fine,  romantic  interlude  in 
civic  business.  Bugles,  and  drums,  and  fifes  are 
of  themselves  most  excellent  things  in  nature, 
and  when  they  carry  the  mind  to  marching  arm- 
ies and  the  picturesque  vicissitudes  of  war  they 
stir  up  something  proud  in  the  heart.  But  in  a 
shadow  of  a  town  like  Landrecies,  with  little 
else  moving,  these  points  of  war  made  a  pro- 
portionate commotion.  Indeed,  they  were  the 
only  things  to  riaember.  It  was  just  the  place 
to  hear  the  round  going  by  at  night  in  the  dark- 
ness, with  the  solid  tramp  of  men  marching,  and 
the  startling  reverberations  of  the  drum.  It 
reminded  you  that  even  this  place  was  a  point 
in  the  great  warfaring  system  of  Europe,  and 
might  on  some  future  day  be  ringed  about  with 
cannon  smoke  and  thunder,  and  make  itself  a 
name  among  strong  towns. 

The  drum,  at  any  rate,  from  its  martial  voice 
and  notable  physiological  effect,  nay,  even  from 
its  cumbrous  and  comical  shape,  stands  alone 
among  the  instruments  of  noise.  And  if  it  be 

57 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

true,  as  I  have  heard  it  said,  that  drums  are 
covered  with  asses'  skin,  what  a  picturesque 
irony  is  there  in  that!  As  if  this  long-suffering 
animal's  hide  had  not  been  sufficiently  bela- 
boured during  life,  now  by  Lyonnese  costermon- 
gers,  now  by  presumptuous  Hebrew  prophets,  it 
must  be  stripped  from  his  poor  hinder  quarters 
after  death,  stretched  on  a  drum,  and  beaten 
night  after  night  round  the  streets  of  every  gar- 
rison town  in  Europe.  And  up  the  heights  of 
Alma  and  Spicheren,  and  wherever  death  has  his 
red  flag  a-flying,  and  sounds  his  own  potent  tuck 
upon  the  cannons,  there  also  must  the  drummer 
boy,  hurrying  with  white  face  over  fallen  com- 
rades, batter  and  bemaul  this  slip  of  skin  from 
the  loins  of  peaceable  donkeys. 

Generally  a  man  is  never  more  uselessly  em- 
ployed than  when  he  is  at  this  trick  of  bastina- 
doing asses'  hide.  We  know  what  effect  it  has 
in  life,  and  how  your  dull  ass  will  not  mend  his 
pace  with  beating.  But  in  this  state  of  mummy 
and  melancholy  survival  of  itself,  when  the  hol- 
low skin  reverberates  to  the  drummer's  wrist, 
and  each  dub-a-dub  goes  direct  to  a  man's  heart, 
and  puts  madness  there,  and  that  disposition  of 
the  pulses  which  we,  in  our  big  way  of  talking, 
nickname  Heroism, — is  there  not  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  revenge  upon  the  donkey's  per- 
secutors? Of  old,  he  might  say,  you  drubbed 
me  up  hill  and  down  dale  and  I  must  endure;  but 
now  that  I  am  dead  those  dull  thwacks  that 

58 


AT  LANDRECIES 

were  scarcely  audible  in  country  lanes  have  be- 
come stirring  music  in  front  of  the  brigade,  and 
for  every  blow  that  you  lay  on  my  old  great- 
coat, you  will  see  a  comrade  stumble  and  fall. 

Not  long  after  the  drums  had  passed  the  cafe, 
the  Cigarette  and  the  Arethusa  began  to  grow 
sleepy,  and  set  out  for  the  hotel,  which  was  only 
a  door  or  two  away.  But  although  we  had  been 
somewhat  indifferent  to  Landrecies,  Landrecies 
had  not  been  indifferent  to  us.  All  day,  we 
learned,  people  had  been  running  out  between 
the  squalls  to  visit  our  two  boats.  Hundreds 
of  persons,  so  said  report,  although  it  fitted  ill 
with  our  idea  of  the  town, — hundreds  of  persons 
had  inspected  them  where  they  lay  in  a  coal- 
shed.  We  were  becoming  lions  in  Landrecies, 
who  had  been  only  pedlars  the  night  before  in 
Pont. 

And  now,  when  we  left  the  cafe,  we  were  pur- 
sued and  overtaken  at  the  hotel  door  by  no  less 
a  person  than  the  Juge  de  Paix;  a  functionary, 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  of  the  character  of  a 
Scots  Sheriff  Substitute.  He  gave  us  his  card 
and  invited  us  to  sup  with  him  on  the  spot,  very 
neatly,  very  gracefully,  as  Frenchmen  can  do 
these  things.  It  was  for  the  credit  of  Landrecies, 
said  he;  and  although  we  knew  very  well  how 
little  credit  we  could  do  the  place,  we  must  have 
been  churlish  fellows  to  refuse  an  invitation  so 
politely  introduced. 

The  house  of  the  judge  was  close  by;  it  was  a 

59 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

well-appointed  bachelor's  establishment,  with  a 
curious  collection  of  old  brass  warming-pans 
upon  the  walls.  Some  of  these  were  most  elabo- 
rately carved.  It  seemed  a  picturesque  idea 
for  a  collector.  You  could  not  help  thinking 
how  many  nightcaps  had  wagged  over  these 
warming-pans  in  past  generations;  what  jests 
may  have  been  made  and  kisses  taken  while  they 
were  in  service;  and  how  often  they  had  been 
uselessly  paraded  in  the  bed  of  death.  If  they 
could  only  speak,  at  what  absurd,  indecorous, 
and  tragical  scenes  had  they  not  been  present? 

The  wine  was  excellent.  When  we  made  the 
judge  our  compliments  upon  a  bottle,  "I  do  not 
give  it  you  as  my  worst,"  said  he.  I  wonder 
when  Englishmen  will  learn  these  hospitable 
graces.  They  are  worth  learning;  they  set  off 
life  and  make  ordinary  moments  ornamental. 

There  were  two  other  Landrecienses  present. 
One  was  the  collector  of  something  or  other,  I 
forget  what;  the  other,  we  were  told,  was  the 
principal  notary  of  the  place.  So  it  happened 
that  we  all  five  more  or  less  followed  the  law.  At 
this  rate,  the  talk  was  pretty  certain  to  become 
technical.  The  Cigarette  expounded  the  Poor 
Laws  very  magisterially.  And  a  little  later  I 
found  myself  laying  down  the  Scotch  law  of  ille- 
gitimacy, of  which  I  am  glad  to  say  I  know  noth- 
ing. The  collector  and  the  notary,  who  were 
both  married  men,  accused  the  judge,  who  was  a 
bachelor,  of  having  started  the  subject.  He  dep- 

60 


AT  LANDRECIES 

recated  the  charge,  with  a  conscious,  pleased 
air,  just  like  all  the  men  I  have  ever  seen,  be 
they  French  or  English.  How  strange  that  we 
should  all,  in  our  unguarded  moments,  rather  like 
to  be  thought  a  bit  of  a  rogue  with  the  women! 
As  the  evening  went  on  the  wine  grew  more  to 
my  taste ;  the  spirits  proved  better  than  the  wine ; 
the  company  was  genial.  This  was  the  highest 
water  mark  of  popular  favour  on  the  whole 
cruise.  After  all,  being  in  a  judge's  house,  was 
there  not  something  semi-official  in  the  tribute? 
And  so,  remembering  what  a  great  country  France 
is,  we  did  full  justice  to  our  entertainment.  Lan- 
drecies  had  been  a  long  while  asleep  before  we 
returned  to  the  hotel;  and  the  sentries  on  the 
ramparts  were  already  looking  for  daybreak. 


61 


SAMBRE  AND  OISE  CANAL 

CANAL     BOATS 

NEXT  day  we  made  a  late  start  in  the  rain. 
The  judge  politely  escorted  us  to  the  end 
of  the  lock  under  an  umbrella.  We  had  now 
brought  ourselves  to  a  pitch  of  humility,  in  the 
matter  of  weather,  not  often  attained  except  in 
the  Scottish  Highlands.  A  rag  of  blue  sky  or  a 
glimpse  of  sunshine  set  our  hearts  singing;  and 
when  the  rain  was  not  heavy  we  counted  the  day 
almost  fair. 

Long  lines  of  barges  lay  one  after  another 
along  the  canal,  many  of  them  looking  mighty 
spruce  and  shipshape  in  their  jerkin  of  Archangel 
tar  picked  out  with  white  and  green.  Some  car- 
ried gay  iron  railings  and  quite  a  parterre  of 
flower-pots.  Children  played  on  the  decks,  as 
heedless  of  the  rain  as  if  they  had  been  brought 
up  on  Loch  Carron  side ;  men  fished  over  the  gun- 
wale, some  of  them  under  umbrellas ;  women  did 
their  washing ;  and  every  barge  boasted  its  mon- 
grel cur  by  way  of  watch-dog.  Each  one  barked 
furiously  at  the  canoes,  running  alongside  until 
he  had  got  to  the  end  of  his  own  ship,  and  so 

62 


SAMBRE  AND  OISE  CANAL 

passing  on  the  word  to  the  dog  aboard  the  next. 
We  must  have  seen  something  like  a  hundred  of 
these  embarkations  in  the  course  of  that  day's 
paddle,  ranged  one  after  another  like  the  houses 
in  a  street;  and  from  not  one  of  them  were  we 
disappointed  of  this  accompaniment.  It  was 
like  visiting  a  menagerie,  the  Cigarette  remarked. 

These  little  cities  by  the  canal  side  had  a  very 
odd  effect  upon  the  mind.  They  seemed,  with 
their  flower-pots  and  smoking  chimneys,  their 
washings  and  dinners,  a  rooted  piece  of  nature 
in  the  scene;  and  yet  if  only  the  canal  below  were 
to  open,  one  junk  after  another  would  hoist 
sail  or  harness  horses  and  swim  away  into  all 
parts  of  France;  and  the  impromptu  hamlet 
would  separate,  house  by  house,  to  the  four 
winds.  The  children  who  played  together  to- 
day by  the  Sambre  and  Oise  Canal,  each  at  his 
own  father's  threshold,  when  and  where  might 
they  next  meet? 

For  some  time  past  the  subject  of  barges  had 
occupied  a  great  deal  of  our  talk,  and  we  had 
projected  an  old  age  on  the  canals  of  Europe.  It 
was  to  be  the  most  leisurely  of  progresses,  now 
on  a  swift  river  at  the  tail  of  a  steamboat,  now 
waiting  horses  for  days  together  on  some  incon- 
siderable junction.  We  should  be  seen  potter- 
ing on  deck  in  all  the  dignity  of  years,  our  white 
beards  falling  into  our  laps.  We  were  ever  to 
be  busied  among  paint-pots,  so  that  there  should 
be  no  white  fresher  and  no  green  more  emerald 

63 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

than  ours,  in  all  the  navy  of  the  canals.  There 
should  be  books  in  the  cabin,  and  tobacco  jars, 
and  some  old  Burgundy  as  red  as  a  November 
sunset  and  as  odorous  as  a  violet  in  April.  There 
should  be  a  flageolet  whence  the  Cigarette,  with 
cunning  touch,  should  draw  melting  music  under 
the  stars;  or  perhaps,  laying  that  aside,  upraise 
his  voice — somewhat  thinner  than  of  yore,  and 
with  here  and  there  a  quaver,  or  call  it  a  natural 
grace  note — in  rich  and  solemn  psalmody. 

All  this  simmering  in  my  mind  set  me  wishing 
to  go  aboard  one  of  these  ideal  houses  of  loung- 
ing. I  had  plenty  to  choose  from,  as  I  coasted 
one  after  another  and  the  dogs  bayed  at  me  for  a 
vagrant.  At  last  I  saw  a  nice  old  man  and  his 
wife  looking  at  me  with  some  interest,  so  I  gave 
them  good  day  and  pulled  up  alongside.  I  be- 
gan with  a  remark  upon  their  dog,  which  had 
somewhat  the  look  of  a  pointer;  thence  I  slid  into 
a  compliment  on  Madame's  flowers,  and  thence 
into  a  word  in  praise  of  their  way  of  life. 

If  you  ventured  on  such  an  experiment  in 
England  you  would  get  a  slap  in  the  face  at  once. 
The  life  would  be  shown  to  be  a  vile  one,  not 
without  a  side  shot  at  your  better  fortune.  Now, 
what  I  like  so  much  in  France  is  the  clear,  un- 
flinching recognition  by  everybody  of  his  own 
luck.  They  all  know  on  which  side  their  bread 
is  buttered,  and  take  a  pleasure  in  showing  it  to 
others,  which  is  surely  the  better  part  of  religion. 
And  they  scorn  to  make  a  poor  mouth  over  their 

64 


SAMBRE  AND   OISE  CANAL 

poverty,  which  I  take  to  be  the  better  part  of 
manliness.  I  have  heard  a  woman  in  quite  a 
better  position  at  home,  with  a  good  bit  of  money 
in  hand,  refer  to  her  own  child  with  a  horrid 
whine  as  "  a  poor  man's  child."  I  would  not  say 
such  a  thing  to  the  Duke  of  Westminster.  And 
the  French  are  full  of  this  spirit  of  independence. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  result  of  republican  institutions, 
as  they  call  them.  Much  more  likely  it  is  be- 
cause there  are  so  few  people  really  poor  that  the 
whiners  are  not  enough  to  keep  each  other  in 
countenance. 

The  people  on  the  barge  were  delighted  to  hear 
that  I  admired  their  state.  They  understood 
perfectly  well,  they  told  me,  how  Monsieur  en- 
vied them.  Without  doubt  Monsieur  was  rich, 
and  in  that  case  he  might  make  a  canal-boat  as 
pretty  as  a  villa — joli  comme  un  chateau.  And 
with  that  they  invited  me  on  board  their  own 
water  villa.  They  apologised  for  their  cabin; 
they  had  not  been  rich  enough  to  make  it  as  it 
ought  to  be. 

"The  fire  should  have  been  here,  at  this  side," 
explained  the  husband.  "Then  one  might  have 
a  writing-table  in  the  middle — books — and" 
(comprehensively)  "all.  It  would  be  quite  co- 
quettish— ga  serait  tout-a-fait  coquet."  And  he 
looked  about  him  as  though  the  improvements 
were  already  made.  It  was  plainly  not  the  first 
time  that  he  had  thus  beautified  his  cabin  in  im- 
agination; and  when  next  he  makes  a  hit,  I 

65 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

should  expect  to  see  the  writing-table  in  the 
middle. 

Madame  had  three  birds  in  a  cage.  They 
were  no  great  thing,  she  explained.  Fine  birds 
were  so  dear.  They  had  sought  to  get  a  Hollan- 
dais  last  winter  in  Rouen  (Rouen?  thought  I ;  and 
is  this  whole  mansion,  with  its  dogs,  and  birds, 
and  smoking  chimneys,  so  far  a  traveller  as  that? 
and  as  homely  an  object  among  the  cliffs  and 
orchards  of  the  Seine  as  on  the  green  plains  of 
Sambre  ?) — they  had  sought  to  get  a  Hollandais 
last  winter  in  Rouen ;  but  these  cost  fifteen  francs 
apiece — picture  it — fifteen  francs! 

"Pour  un  tout  petit  oiseau — For  quite  a  little 
bird,"  added  the  husband. 

As  I  continued  to  admire,  the  apologetics  died 
away,  and  the  good  people  began  to  brag  of  their 
barge  and  their  happy  condition  in  life,  as  if  they 
had  been  Emperor  and  Empress  of  the  Indies. 
It  was,  in  the  Scots  phrase,  a  good  hearing,  and 
put  me  in  good-humour  with  the  world.  If 
people  knew  what  an  inspiriting  thing  it  is  to 
hear  a  man  boasting,  so  long  as  he  boasts  of  what 
he  really  has,  I  believe  they  would  do  it  more 
freely  and  with  a  better  grace. 

They  began  to  ask  about  our  voyage.  You 
should  have  seen  how  they  sympathised.  They 
seemed  hah0  ready  to  give  up  their  barge  and  fol- 
low us.  But  these  canaletti  are  only  gypsies 
semi-domesticated.  The  semi-domestication 
came  out  in  rather  a  pretty  form.  Suddenly 

66 


SAMBRE  AND  OISE  CANAL 

Madame's  brow  darkened.  " Cependant,"  she 
began,  and  then  stopped;  and  then  began  again 
by  asking  me  if  I  were  single. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"And  your  friend  who  went  by  just  now?" 

He  also  was  unmarried. 

Oh,  then,  all  was  well.  She  could  not  have 
wives  left  alone  at  home;  but  since  there  were  no 
wives  in  the  question,  we  were  doing  the  best 
we  could. 

"To  see  about  one  in  the  world,"  said  the  hus- 
band, "i7  riy  a  que  QCL — there  is  nothing  else 
worth  while.  A  man,  look  you,  who  sticks  in  his 
own  village  like  a  bear,"  he  went  on,  "very  well, 
he  sees  nothing.  And  then  death  is  the  end  of 
all.  And  he  has  seen  nothing." 

Madame  reminded  her  husband  of  an  English- 
man who  had  come  up  this  canal  in  a  steamer. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Moens  in  the  Ytene,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"That's  it,"  assented  the  husband.  "  He  had 
his  wife  and  family  with  him,  and  servants.  He 
came  ashore  at  all  the  locks  and  asked  the  name 
of  the  villages,  whether  from  boatmen  or  lock- 
keepers;  and  then  he  wrote,  wrote  them  down. 
Oh,  he  wrote  enormously!  I  suppose  it  was  a 
wager." 

A  wager  was  a  common  enough  explanation 
for  our  own  exploits,  but  it  seemed  an  original 
reason  for  taking  notes. 


67 


THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD 

BEFORE  nine  next  morning  the  two  canoes 
were  installed  on  a  light  country  cart  at 
Etreux;  and  we  were  soon  following  them  along 
the  side  of  a  pleasant  valley  full  of  hop-gardens 
and  poplars.  Agreeable  villages  lay  here  and 
there  on  the  slope  of  the  hill:  notably,  Tupigny, 
with  the  hop-poles  hanging  their  garlands  in  the 
very  street,  and  the  houses  clustered  with  grapes. 
There  was  a  faint  enthusiasm  on  our  passage; 
weavers  put  their  heads  to  the  windows ;  children 
cried  out  in  ecstasy  at  sight  of  the  two  "boaties" 
— barquettes;  and  bloused  pedestrians,  who  were 
acquainted  with  our  charioteer,  jested  with  him 
on  the  nature  of  his  freight. 

We  had  a  shower  or  two,  but  light  and  flying. 
The  air  was  clean  and  sweet  among  all  these 
green  fields  and  green  things  growing.  There 
was  not  a  touch  of  autumn  in  the  weather.  And 
when,  at  Vadencourt,  we  launched  from  a  little 
lawn  opposite  a  mill,  the  sun  broke  forth  and 
set  all  the  leaves  shining  in  the  valley  of  the  Oise. 

The  river  was  swollen  with  the  long  rains. 
From  Vadencourt  all  the  way  to  Origny  it  ran 

68 


THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD 

with  ever-quickening  speed,  taking  fresh  heart 
at  each  mile,  and  racing  as  though  it  already 
smelt  the  sea.  The  water  was  yellow  and  tur- 
bulent, swung  with  an  angry  eddy  among  half- 
submerged  willows,  and  made  an  angry  clatter 
along  stony  shores.  The  course  kept  turning 
and  turning  in  a  narrow  and  well-timbered 
valley.  Now  the  river  would  approach  the  side, 
and  run  gliding  along  the  chalky  base  of  the 
hill,  and  show  us  a  few  open  colza  fields  among 
the  trees.  Now  it  would  skirt  the  garden  walls 
of  houses,  where  we  might  catch  a  glimpse 
through  a  doorway,  and  see  a  priest  pacing  in  the 
chequered  sunlight.  Again,  the  foliage  closed 
so  thickly  in  front  that  there  seemed  to  be  no 
issue;  only  a  thicket  of  willows  overtopped  by 
elms  and  poplars,  under  which  the  river  ran 
flush  and  fleet,  and  where  a  kingfisher  flew  past 
like  a  piece  of  the  blue  sky.  On  these  different 
manifestations  the  sun  poured  its  clear  and  ca- 
tholic looks.  The  shadows  lay  as  solid  on  the 
swift  surface  of  the  stream  as  on  the  stable 
meadows.  The  light  sparkled  golden  in  the 
dancing  poplar  leaves,  and  brought  the  hills  into 
communion  with  our  eyes.  And  all  the  while 
the  river  never  stopped  running  or  took  breath; 
and  the  reeds  along  the  whole  valley  stood  shiver- 
ing from  top  to  toe. 

There  should  be  some  myth  (but  if  there  is,  I 
know  it  not)  founded  on  the  shivering  of  the 
reeds.  There  are  not  many  things  in  nature 

69 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

more  striking  to  man's  eye.  It  is  such  an  elo- 
quent pantomime  of  terror;  and  to  see  such  a 
number  of  terrified  creatures  taking  sanctuary 
in  every  nook  along  the  shore  is  enough  to  infect 
a  silly  human  with  alarm.  Perhaps  they  are 
only  a-cold,  and  no  wonder,  standing  waist-deep 
in  the  stream.  Or,  perhaps,  they  have  never  got 
accustomed  to  the  speed  and  fury  of  the  river's 
flux,  or  the  miracle  of  its  continuous  body.  Pan 
once  played  upon  their  forefathers;  and  so,  by 
the  hands  of  his  river,  he  still  plays  upon  these 
later  generations  down  all  the  valley  of  the  Oise ; 
and  plays  the  same  air,  both  sweet  and  shrill,  to 
tell  us  of  the  beauty  and  the  terror  of  the  world. 
The  canoe  was  like  a  leaf  in  the  current.  It 
took  it  up  and  shook  it,  and  carried  it  master- 
fully away,  like  a  Centaur  carrying  off  a  nymph. 
To  keep  some  command  on  our  direction  re- 
quired hard  and  diligent  plying  of  the  paddle. 
The  river  was  in  such  a  hurry  for  the  sea !  Every 
drop  of  water  ran  in  a  panic,  like  so  many  people 
in  a  frightened  crowd.  But  what  crowd  was 
ever  so  numerous  or  so  single-minded?  All  the 
objects  of  sight  went  by  at  a  dance  measure;  the 
eyesight  raced  with  the  racing  river;  the  exi- 
gencies of  every  moment  kept  the  pegs  screwed 
so  tight  that  our  being  quivered  like  a  well-tuned 
instrument,  and  the  blood  shook  off  its  lethargy, 
and  trotted  through  all  the  highways  and  by- 
ways of  the  veins  and  arteries,  and  in  and  out  of 
the  heart,  as  if  circulation  were  but  a  holiday 

70 


THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD 

journey  and  not  the  daily  moil  of  threescore 
years  and  ten.  The  reeds  might  nod  their  heads 
in  warning,  and  with  tremulous  gestures  tell  how 
the  river  was  as  cruel  as  it  was  strong  and  cold, 
and  how  death  lurked  in  the  eddy  underneath 
the  willows.  But  the  reeds  had  to  stand  where 
they  were;  and  those  who  stand  still  are  always 
timid  advisers.  As  for  us,  we  could  have  shouted 
aloud.  If  this  lively  and  beautiful  river  were, 
indeed,  a  thing  of  death's  contrivance,  the  old 
ashen  rogue  had  famously  outwitted  himself 
with  us.  I  was  living  three  to  the  minute.  I 
was  scoring  points  against  him  every  stroke  of 
my  paddle,  every  turn  of  the  stream.  I  have 
rarely  had  better  profit  of  my  life. 

For  I  think  we  may  look  upon  our  little  private 
war  with  death  somewhat  in  this  light.  If  a 
man  knows  he  will  sooner  or  later  be  robbed  upon 
a  journey,  he  will  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  in 
every  inn,  and  look  upon  all  his  extravagances 
as  so  much  gained  upon  the  thieves.  And  above 
all,  where,  instead  of  simply  spending,  he  makes 
a  profitable  investment  for  some  of  his  money, 
when  it  will  be  out  of  risk  of  loss.  So  every  bit 
of  brisk  living,  and  above  all  when  it  is  health- 
ful, is  just  so  much  gained  upon  the  wholesale 
filcher,  death.  We  shall  have  the  less  in  our 
pockets,  the  more  in  our  stomachs,  when  he 
cries,  "Stand  and  deliver."  A  swift  stream  is  a 
favourite  artifice  of  his,  and  one  that  brings  him 
in  a  comfortable  thing  per  annum;  but  when  he 

71 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

and  I  come  to  settle  our  accounts  I  shall  whistle 
in  his  face  for  these  hours  upon  the  upper  Oise. 

Towards  afternoon  we  got  fairly  drunken  with 
the  sunshine  and  the  exhilaration  of  the  pace. 
We  could  no  longer  contain  ourselves  and  our 
content.  The  canoes  were  too  small  for  us;  we 
must  be  out  and  stretch  ourselves  on  shore.  And 
so  in  a  green  meadow  we  bestowed  our  limbs  on 
the  grass,  and  smoked  deifying  tobacco,  and  pro- 
claimed the  world  excellent.  It  was  the  last 
good  hour  of  the  day,  and  I  dwell  upon  it  with 
extreme  complacency. 

On  one  side  of  the  valley,  high  upon  the  chalky 
summit,  of  the  hill,  a  ploughman  with  his  team 
appeared  and  disappeared  at  regular  intervals. 
At  each  revelation  he  stood  still  for  a  few  seconds 
against  the  sky,  for  all  the  world  (as  the  Cigarette 
declared)  like  a  toy  Burns  who  had  just  ploughed 
up  the  Mountain  Daisy.  He  was  the  only  living 
thing  within  view,  unless  we  are  to  count  the 
river. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  valley  a  group  of  red 
roofs  and  a  belfry  showed  among  the  foliage. 
Thence  some  inspired  bell-ringer  made  the  after- 
noon musical  on  a  chime  of  bells.  There  was 
something  very  sweet  and  taking  in  the  air  he 
played,  and  we  thought  we  had  never  heard  bells 
speak  so  intelligibly  or  sing  so  melodiously  as  these. 
It  must  have  been  to  some  such  measure  that 
the  spinners  and  the  young  maids  sang,  "Come 
away,  Death,"  in  the  Shakespearian  Illyria. 

72 


THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD 

There  is  so  often  a  threatening  note,  something 
blatant  and  metallic,  in  the  voice  of  bells,  that 
I  believe  we  have  fully  more  pain  than  pleasure 
from  hearing  them;  but  these,  as  they  sounded 
abroad,  now  high,  now  low,  now  with  a  plaintive 
cadence  that  caught  the  ear  like  the  burden  of  a 
popular  song,  were  always  moderate  and  tun- 
able, and  seemed  to  fall  in  with  the  spirit  of  still, 
rustic  places,  like  the  noise  of  a  waterfall  or  the 
babble  of  a  rookery  in  spring.  I  could  have 
asked  the  bell-ringer  for  his  blessing,  good,  sedate 
old  man,  who  swung  the  rope  so  gently  to  the 
time  of  his  meditations.  I  could  have  blessed 
the  priest  or  the  heritors,  or  whoever  may  be 
concerned  with  such  affairs  in  France,  who  had 
left  these  sweet  old  bells  to  gladden  the  after- 
noon, and  not  held  meetings,  and  made  collec- 
tions, and  had  then*  names  repeatedly  printed 
in  the  local  paper,  to  rig  up  a  peal  of  brand-new, 
brazen,  Birmingham-hearted  substitutes,  who 
should  bombard  their  sides  to  the  provocation 
of  a  brand-new  bell-ringer,  and  fill  the  echoes  of 
the  valley  with  terror  and  riot. 

At  last  the  bells  ceased,  and  with  their  note 
the  sun  withdrew.  The  piece  was  at  an  end; 
shadow  and  silence  possessed  the  valley  of  the 
Oise.  We  took  to  the  paddle  with  glad  hearts, 
like  people  who  have  sat  out  a  noble  performance 
and  return  to  work.  The  river  was  more  dan- 
gerous here ;  it  ran  swifter,  the  eddies  were  more 
sudden  and  violent.  All  the  way  down  we  had 

73 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

had  our  fill  of  difficulties.  Sometimes  it  was  a  weir 
which  could  be  shot,  sometimes  one  so  shallow 
and  full  of  stakes  that  we  must  withdraw  the 
boats  from  the  water  and  carry  them  round. 
But  the  chief  sort  of  obstacle  was  a  consequence 
of  the  late  high  winds.  Every  two  or  three  hun- 
dred yards  a  tree  had  fallen  across  the  river, 
and  usually  involved  more  than  another  in  its 
fall.  Often  there  was  free  water  at  the  end,  and 
we  could  steer  round  the  leafy  promontory  and 
hear  the  water  sucking  and  bubbling  among  the 
twigs.  Often,  again,  when  the  tree  reached  from 
bank  to  bank,  there  was  room,  by  lying  close,  to 
shoot  through  underneath,  canoe  and  all.  Some- 
times it  was  necessary  to  get  out  upon  the  trunk 
itself  and  pull  the  boats  across;  and  sometimes, 
where  the  stream  was  too  impetuous  for  this,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  land  and  "carry  over." 
This  made  a  fine  series  of  accidents  in  the  day's 
career,  and  kept  us  aware  of  ourselves. 

Shortly  after  our  re-embarkation,  while  I  was 
leading  by  a  long  way,  and  still  full  of  a  noble, 
exulting  spirit  in  honour  of  the  sun,  the  swift 
pace,  and  the  church  bells,  the  river  made  one 
of  its  leonine  pounces  round  a  corner,  and  I  was 
aware  of  another  fallen  tree  within  a  stone-cast. 
I  had  my  back-board  down  in  a  trice,  and  aimed 
for  a  place  where  the  trunk  seemed  high  enough 
above  the  water,  and  the  branches  not  too  thick 
to  let  me  slip  below.  When  a  man  has  just 
vowed  eternal  brotherhood  with  the  universe 

74 


THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD 

he  is  not  in  a  temper  to  take  great  determinations 
coolly,  and  this,  which  might  have  been  a  very 
important  determination  for  me,  had  not  been 
taken  under  a  happy  star.  The  tree  caught  me 
about  the  chest,  and  while  I  was  yet  struggling 
to  make  less  of  myself  and  get  through,  the  river 
took  the  matter  out  of  my  hands  and  bereaved 
me  of  my  boat.  The  Arethusa  swung  round 
broadside  on,  leaned  over,  ejected  so  much  of 
me  as  still  remained  on  board,  and,  thus  disen- 
cumbered, whipped  under  the  tree,  righted,  and 
went  merrily  away  down  stream. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  it  was  before  I  scram- 
bled on  to  the  tree  to  which  I  was  left  clinging, 
but  it  was  longer  than  I  cared  about.  My 
thoughts  were  of  a  grave  and  almost  sombre 
character,  but  I  still  clung  to  my  paddle.  The 
stream  ran  away  with  my  heels  as  fast  as  I  could 
pull  up  my  shoulders,  and  I  seemed,  by  the 
weight,  to  have  all  the  water  of  the  Oise  in  my 
trousers'  pockets.  You  can  never  know,  till 
you  try  it,  what  a  dead  pull  a  river  makes  against 
a  man.  Death  himself  had  me  by  the  heels, 
for  this  was  his  last  ambuscade,  and  he  must 
now  join  personally  in  the  fray.  And  still  I  held 
to  my  paddle.  At  last  I  dragged  myself  on  to 
my  stomach  on  the  trunk,  and  lay  there  a  breath- 
less sop,  with  a  mingled  sense  of  humour  and  injus- 
tice. A  poor  figure  I  must  have  presented  to 
Burns  upon  the  hill-top  with  his  team.  But 
there  was  the  paddle  in  my  hand.  On  my  tomb, 

75 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

if  ever  I  have  one,  I  mean  to  get  these  words 
inscribed:  "He  clung  to  his  paddle." 

The  Cigarette  had  gone  past  awhile  before ;  for 
as  I  might  have  observed,  if  I  had  been  a  little 
less  pleased  with  the  universe  at  the  moment, 
there  was  a  clear  way  round  the  tree-top  at  the 
farther  side.  He  had  offered  his  services  to  haul 
me  out,  but,  as  I  was  then  already  on  my  elbows, 
I  had  declined  and  sent  him  down  stream  after 
the  truant  Arethusa.  The  stream  was  too  rapid 
for  a  man  to  mount  with  one  canoe,  let  alone 
two,  upon  his  hands.  So  I  crawled  along  the 
trunk  to  shore,  and  proceeded  down  the  meadows 
by  the  river-side.  I  was  so  cold  that  my  heart 
was  sore.  I  had  now  an  idea  of  my  own  why 
the  reeds  so  bitterly  shivered.  I  could  have 
given  any  of  them  a  lesson.  The  Cigarette  re- 
marked, facetiously,  that  he  thought  I  was  "tak- 
ing exercise"  as  I  drew  near,  until  he  made  out 
for  certain  that  I  was  only  twittering  with  cold. 
I  had  a  rub-down  with  a  towel,  and  donned  a 
dry  suit  from  the  india-rubber  bag.  But  I  was 
not  my  own  man  again  for  the  rest  of  the  voy- 
age. I  had  a  queasy  sense  that  I  wore  my  last 
dry  clothes  upon  my  body.  The  struggle  had 
tired  me;  and,  perhaps,  whether  I  knew  it  or 
not,  I  was  a  little  dashed  in  spirit.  The  de- 
vouring element  in  the  universe  had  leaped  out 
against  me,  in  this  green  valley  quickened  by  a 
running  stream.  The  bells  were  all  very  pretty 
in  their  way,  but  I  had  heard  some  of  the  hollow 

76 


THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD 

notes  of  Pan's  music.  Would  the  wicked  river 
drag  me  down  by  the  heels,  indeed?  and  look  so 
beautiful  all  the  time?  Nature's  good-humour 
was  only  skin  deep  after  all. 

There  was  still  a  long  way  to  go  by  the  wind- 
ing course  of  the  stream,  and  darkness  had  fallen, 
and  a  late  bell  was  ringing  in  Origny  Sainte- 
Benoite  when  we  arrived. 


77 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

A    BY-DAY 

r  I^HE  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  the  church 
J-  bells  had  little  rest;  indeed,  I  do  not  think 
I  remember  anywhere  else  so  great  a  choice  of 
services  as  were  here  offered  to  the  devout.  And 
while  the  bells  made  merry  in  the  sunshine,  all 
the  world  with  his  dog  was  out  shooting  among 
the  beets  and  colza. 

In  the  morning  a  hawker  and  his  wife  went 
down  the  street  at  a  foot-pace,  singing  to  a  very 
slow,  lamentable  music,  "  0  France,  mes  amours." 
It  brought  everybody  to  the  door;  and  when  our 
landlady  called  in  the  man  to  buy  the  words, 
he  had  not  a  copy  of  them  left.  She  was  not 
the  first  nor  the  second  who  had  been  taken  with 
the  song.  There  is  something  very  pathetic  in 
the  love  of  the  French  people,  since  the  war,  for 
dismal  patriotic  music-making.  I  have  watched 
a  forester  from  Alsace  while  some  one  was  sing- 
ing "Les  malheurs  de  la  France,"  at  a  baptismal 
party  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Fontainebleau. 
He  arose  from  the  table  and  took  his  son  aside, 
close  by  where  I  was  standing.  "  Listen,  listen," 

78 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

he  said,  bearing  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  "and  re- 
member this,  my  son."  A  little  after  he  went 
out  into  the  garden  suddenly,  and  I  could  hear 
him  sobbing  in  the  darkness. 

The  humiliation  of  their  arms  and  the  loss  of 
Alsace  and  Lorraine  made  a  sore  pull  on  the  en- 
durance of  this  sensitive  people ;  and  their  hearts 
are  still  hot,  not  so  much  against  Germany  as 
against  the  Empire.  In  what  other  country  will 
you  find  a  patriotic  ditty  bring  all  the  world  into 
the  street?  But  affliction  heightens  love;  and 
we  shall  never  know  we  are  Englishmen  until  we 
have  lost  India.  Independent  America  is  still 
the  cross  of  my  existence;  I  cannot  think  of 
Farmer  George  without  abhorrence;  and  I  never 
feel  more  warmly  to  my  own  land  than  when  I 
see  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  remember  what  our 
empire  might  have  been. 

The  hawker's  little  book,  which  I  purchased, 
was  a  curious  mixture.  Side  by  side  with  the 
flippant,  rowdy  nonsense  of  the  Paris  music- 
halls  there  were  many  pastoral  pieces,  not  with- 
out a  touch  of  poetry,  I  thought,  and  instinct 
with  the  brave  independence  of  the  poorer  class 
in  France.  There  you  might  read  how  the  wood- 
cutter gloried  in  his  axe,  and  the  gardener 
scorned  to  be  ashamed  of  his  spade.  It  was  not 
very  well  written,  this  poetry  of  labour,  but  the 
pluck  of  the  sentiment  redeemed  what  was  weak 
or  wordy  in  the  expression.  The  martial  and 
the  patriotic  pieces,  on  the  other  hand,  were 

79 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

tearful,  womanish  productions  one  and  all.  The 
poet  had  passed  under  the  Caudine  Forks;  he 
sang  for  an  army  visiting  the  tomb  of  its  old  re- 
nown, with  arms  reversed ;  and  sang  not  of  vic- 
tory, but  of  death.  There  was  a  number  in  the 
hawker's  collection  called  Consents  Frangais, 
which  may  rank  among  the  most  dissuasive  war- 
lyrics  on  record.  It  would  not  be  possible  to 
fight  at  ah1  in  such  a  spirit.  The  bravest  con- 
script would  turn  pale  if  such  a  ditty  were  struck 
up  beside  him  on  the  morning  of  battle;  and 
whole  regiments  would  pile  their  arms  to  its  tune. 
If  Fletcher  of  Saltoun  is  in  the  right  about 
the  influence  of  national  songs,  you  would  say 
France  was  come  to  a  poor  pass.  But  the  thing 
will  work  its  own  cure,  and  a  sound-hearted 
and  courageous  people  weary  at  length  of  snivel- 
ling over  their  disasters.  Already  Paul  Derou- 
lede  has  written  some  manly  military  verses. 
There  is  not  much  of  the  trumpet  note  in  them, 
perhaps,  to  stir  a  man's  heart  in  his  bosom; 
they  lack  the  lyrical  elation,  and  move  slowly; 
but  they  are  written  in  a  grave,  honourable, 
stoical  spirit,  which  should  carry  soldiers  far 
in  a  good  cause.  One  feels  as  if  one  would  like 
to  trust  Deroulede  with  something.  It  will  be 
happy  if  he  can  so  far  inoculate  his  fellow- 
countrymen  that  they  may  be  trusted  with  their 
own  future.  And,  in  the  mean  time,  here  is  an 
antidote  to  "French  Conscripts"  and  much 
other  doleful  versification. 

80 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

We  had  left  the  boats  over  night  in  the  custody 
of  one  whom  we  shall  call  Carnival.  I  did  not 
properly  catch  his  name,  and  perhaps  that  was 
not  unfortunate  for  him,  as  I  am  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  hand  him  down  with  honour  to  posterity. 
To  this  person's  premises  we  strolled  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  and  found  quite  a  little  depu- 
tation inspecting  the  canoes.  There  was  a 
stout  gentleman  with  a  knowledge  of  the  river, 
which  he  seemed  eager  to  impart.  There  was  a 
very  elegant  young  gentleman  in  a  black  coat, 
with  a  smattering  of  English,  who  led  the  talk 
at  once  to  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  boat  race. 
And  then  there  were  three  handsome  girls  from 
fifteen  to  twenty;  and  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
blouse,  with  no  teeth  to  speak  of,  and  a  strong 
country  accent.  Quite  the  pick  of  Origny,  I 
should  suppose. 

The  Cigarette  had  some  mysteries  to  perform 
with  his  rigging  in  the  coach-house ;  so  I  was  left 
to  do  the  parade  single-handed.  I  found  myself 
very  much  of  a  hero  whether  I  would  or  not. 
The  girls  were  full  of  little  shudderings  over  the 
dangers  of  our  journey.  And  I  thought  it  would 
be  ungallant  not  to  take  my  cue  from  the  ladies. 
My  mishap  of  yesterday,  told  in  an  off-hand 
way,  produced  a  deep  sensation.  It  was  Othello 
over  again,  with  no  less  than  three  Desdemonas 
and  a  sprinkling  of  sympathetic  senators  in  the 
background.  Never  were  the  canoes  more  flat- 
tered, or  flattered  more  adroitly. 

81 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

"It  is  like  a  violin,"  cried  one  of  the  girls,  in 
an  ecstasy. 

"I  thank  you  for  the  word,  mademoiselle," 
said  I.  "All  the  more  since  there  are  people 
who  call  out  to  me  that  it  is  like  a  coffin." 

"Oh!  but  it  is  really  like  a  violin.  It  is  fin- 
ished like  a  violin,"  she  went  on. 

"And  polished  like  a  violin,"  added  a  senator. 

"One  has  only  to  stretch  the  cords,"  con- 
cluded another,  "and  then  tum-tumty-tum " ; 
he  imitated  the  result  with  spirit. 

Was  not  this  a  graceful  little  ovation?  Where 
this  people  finds  the  secret  of  its  pretty  speeches 
I  cannot  imagine,  unless  the  secret  should  be  no 
other  than  a  sincere  desire  to  please.  But  then 
no  disgrace  is  attached  in  France  to  saying  a 
thing  neatly ;  whereas  in  England,  to  talk  like  a 
book  is  to  give  in  one's  resignation  to  society. 

The  old  gentleman  in  the  blouse  stole  into  the 
coach-house,  and  somewhat  irrelevantly  informed 
the  Cigarette  that  he  was  the  father  of  the  three 
girls  and  four  more;  quite  an  exploit  for  a 
Frenchman. 

"You  are  very  fortunate,"  answered  the 
Cigarette  politely. 

And  the  old  gentleman,  having  apparently 
gained  his  point,  stole  away  again. 

We  all  got  very  friendly  together.  The  girls 
proposed  to  start  with  us  on  the  morrow,  if  you 
please.  And,  jesting  apart,  every  one  was 
anxious  to  know  the  hour  of  our  departure.  Now, 

82 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

when  you  are  going  to  crawl  into  your  canoe 
from  a  bad  launch,  a  crowd,  however  friendly, 
is  undesirable,  and  so  we  told  them  not  before 
twelve,  and  mentally  determined  to  be  off  by 
ten  at  latest. 

Towards  evening  we  went  abroad  again  to 
post  some  letters.  It  was  cool  and  pleasant;  the 
long  village  was  quite  empty,  except  for  one  or 
two  urchins  who  followed  us  as  they  might 
have  followed  a  menagerie;  the  hills  and  the 
tree-tops  looked  in  from  all  sides  through  the 
clear  air,  and  the  bells  were  chiming  for  yet  an- 
other service. 

Suddenly  we  sighted  the  three  girls,  standing, 
with  a  fourth  sister,  in  front  of  a  shop  on  the 
wide  selvage  of  the  roadway.  We  had  been  very 
merry  with  them  a  little  while  ago,  to  be  sure. 
But  what  was  the  etiquette  of  Origny?  Had  it 
been  a  country  road,  of  course  we  should  have 
spoken  to  them;  but  here,  under  the  eyes  of  all 
the  gossips,  ought  we  to  do  even  as  much  as  bow? 
I  consulted  the  Cigarette. 

"Look,"  said  he. 

I  looked.  There  were  the  four  girls  on  the 
same  spot;  but  now  four  backs  were  turned  to 
us,  very  upright  and  conscious.  Corporal  Mod- 
esty had  given  the  word  of  command,  and  the 
well-disciplined  picket  had  gone  right-about- 
face  like  a  single  person.  They  maintained  this; 
formation  all  the  while  we  were  in  sight;  but  we 
heard  them  tittering  among  themselves,  and  the 

83 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

girl  whom  we  had  not  met  laughed  with  open 
mouth,  and  even  looked  over  her  shoulder  at 
the  enemy.  I  wonder  was  it  altogether  modesty 
after  all,  or  in  part  a  sort  of  country  provocation? 

As  we  were  returning  to  the  inn  we  beheld 
something  floating  in  the  ample  field  of  golden 
evening  sky,  above  the  chalk  cliffs  and  the  trees 
that  grow  along  their  summit.  It  was  too  high 
up,  too  large,  and  too  steady  for  a  kite;  and,  as 
it  was  dark,  it  could  not  be  a  star.  For  al- 
though a  star  were  as  black  as  ink  and  as  rugged 
as  a  walnut,  so  amply  does  the  sun  bathe  heaven 
with  radiance  that  it  would  sparkle  like  a  point 
of  light  for  us.  The  village  was  dotted  with 
people  with  their  heads  in  air;  and  the  children 
were  in  a  bustle  all  along  the  street  and  far  up 
the  straight  road  that  climbs  the  hill,  where  we 
could  still  see  them  running  in  loose  knots.  It 
was  a  balloon,  we  learned,  which  had  left  Saint 
Quentin  at  half-past  five  that  evening.  Mighty 
composedly  the  majority  of  the  grown  people 
took  it.  But  we  were  English,  and  were  soon 
running  up  the  hill  with  the  best.  Being 
travellers  ourselves  in  a  small  way,  we  would 
fain  have  seen  these  other  travellers  alight. 

The  spectacle  was  over  by  the  time  we  gained 
the  top  of  the  hill.  All  the  gold  had  withered 
out  of  the  sky,  and  the  balloon  had  disappeared. 
Whither?  I  ask  myself;  caught  up  into  the 
seventh  heaven?  or  come  safely  to  land  some- 
where in  that  blue,  uneven  distance,  into  which 

84 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

the  roadway  dipped  and  melted  before  our  eyes? 
Probably  the  aeronauts  were  already  warming 
themselves  at  a  farm  chimney,  for  they  say  it  is 
cold  in  these  unhomely  regions  of  the  air.  The 
night  fell  swiftly.  Roadside  trees  and  disap- 
pointed sightseers,  returning  through  the  mead- 
ows, stood  out  in  black  against  a  margin  of  low, 
red  sunset.  It  was  cheerfuller  to  face  the  other 
way,  and  so  down  the  hill  we  went,  with  a  full 
moon,  the  colour  of  a  melon,  swinging  high 
above  the  wooded  valley,  and  the  white  cliffs  be- 
hind us  faintly  reddened  by  the  fire  of  the  chalk- 
kilns. 

The  lamps  were  lighted,  and  the  salads  were 
being  made  in  Origny  Sainte-Benoite  by  the 
river. 


85 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

THE    COMPANY    AT    TABLE 

ALTHOUGH  we  came  late  for  dinner,  the 
JL\_  company  at  table  treated  us  to  sparkling 
wine.  "  That  is  how  we  are  in  France,"  said  one. 
"Those  who  sit  down  with  us  are  our  friends." 
And  the  rest  applauded. 

They  were  three  altogether,  and  an  odd  trio 
to  pass  the  Sunday  with. 

Two  of  them  were  guests  like  ourselves,  both 
men  of  the  north.  One  ruddy,  and  of  a  full 
habit  of  body,  with  copious  black  hair  and  beard, 
the  intrepid  hunter  of  France,  who  thought 
nothing  so  small,  not  even  a  lark  or  a  minnow, 
but  he  might  vindicate  his  prowess  by  its  cap- 
ture. For  such  a  great,  healthy  man,  his  hair 
flourishing  like  Samson's,  his  arteries  running 
buckets  of  red  blood,  to  boast  of  these  infinitesi- 
mal exploits,  produced  a  feeling  of  dispropor- 
tion in  the  world,  as  when  a  steam-hammer  is 
set  to  cracking  nuts.  The  other  was  a  quiet 
subdued  person,  blond,  and  lymphatic,  and  sad, 
with  something  the  look  of  a  Dane:  "  Tristes  tetes 
de  Danois!"  as  Gaston  Lafenestre  used  to  say. 

86 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

I  must  not  let  that  name  go  by  without  a  word 
for  the  best  of  all  good  fellows,  now  gone  down 
into  the  dust.  We  shall  never  again  see  Gaston 
in  his  forest  costume, — he  was  Gaston  with  all 
the  world,  in  affection,  not  in  disrespect, — nor 
hear  him  wake  the  echoes  of  Fontainebleau  with 
the  woodland  horn.  Never  again  shall  his  kind 
smile  put  peace  among  all  races  of  artistic  men, 
and  make  the  Englishman  at  home  in  France. 
Never  more  shall  the  sheep,  who  were  not  more 
innocent  at  heart  than  he,  sit  all  unconsciously 
for  his  industrious  pencil.  He  died  too  early, 
at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  beginning  to 
put  forth  fresh  sprouts  and  blossom  into  some- 
thing worthy  of  himself;  and  yet  none  who  knew 
him  will  think  he  lived  in  vain.  I  never  knew  a 
man  so  little,  for  whom  yet  I  had  so  much  affec- 
tion ;  and  I  find  it  a  good  test  of  others,  how  much 
they  had  learned  to  understand  and  value  him. 
His  was,  indeed,  a  good  influence  in  life  while  he 
was  still  among  us;  he  had  a  fresh  laugh;  it  did 
you  good  to  see  him;  and,  however  sad  he  may 
have  been  at  heart,  he  always  bore  a  bold  and 
cheerful  countenance  and  took  fortune's  worst 
as  it  were  the  showers  of  spring.  But  now  his 
mother  sits  alone  by  the  side  of  Fontainebleau 
woods,  where  he  gathered  mushrooms  in  his 
hardy  and  penurious  youth. 

Many  of  his  pictures  found  their  way  across 
the  Channel;  besides  those  which  were  stolen, 
when  a  dastardly  Yankee  left  him  alone  in  Lon- 

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AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

don  with  two  English  pence,  and,  perhaps,  twice 
as  many  words  of  English.  If  any  one  who  reads 
these  lines  should  have  a  scene  of  sheep,  in  the 
manner  of  Jacques,  with  this  fine  creature's  sig- 
nature, let  him  tell  himself  that  one  of  the  kind- 
est and  bravest  of  men  has  lent  a  hand  to  deco- 
rate his  lodging.  There  may  be  better  pictures  in 
the  National  Gallery;  but  not  a  painter  among 
the  generations  had  a  better  heart.  Precious  in 
the  sight  of  the  Lord  of  humanity,  the  Psalms  tell 
us,  is  the  death  of  his  saints.  It  had  need  to  be 
precious;  for  it  is  very  costly,  when,  by  a  stroke, 
a  mother  is  left  desolate,  and  the  peace-maker 
and  peace-looker  of  a  whole  society  is  laid  in  the 
ground  with  Caesar  and  the  Twelve  Apostles. 

There  is  something  lacking  among  the  oaks 
of  Fontainebleau;  and  when  the  dessert  comes  in 
at  Barbizon,  people  look  to  the  door  for  a  figure 
that  is  gone. 

The  third  of  our  companions  at  Origny  was  no 
less  a  person  than  the  landlady's  husband;  not 
properly  the  landlord,  since  he  worked  himself 
in  a  factory  during  the  day,  and  came  to  his  own 
house  at  evening  as  a  guest;  a  man  worn  to  skin 
and  bone  by  perpetual  excitement,  with  baldish 
head,  sharp  features,  and  swift,  shining  eyes.  On 
Saturday,  describing  some  paltry  adventure  at  a 
duck  hunt,  he  broke  a  plate  into  a  score  of  frag- 
ments. Whenever  he  made  a  remark,  he  would 
look  all  round  the  table,  with  his  chin  raised 
and  a  spark  of  green  light  in  either  eye,  seeking 

88 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

approval.  His  wife  appeared  now  and  again  in 
the  doorway  of  the  room,  where  she  was  superin- 
tending dinner,  with  a  "Henri,  you  forget  your- 
self," or  a  "Henri,  you  can  surely  talk  without 
making  such  a  noise."  Indeed,  that  was  what 
the  honest  fellow  could  not  do.  On  the  most 
trifling  matter  his  eyes  kindled,  his  fist  visited 
the  table,  and  his  voice  rolled  abroad  in  change- 
ful thunder.  I  never  saw  such  a  petard  of  a 
man ;  I  think  the  devil  was  in  him.  He  had  two 
favourite  expressions,  "It  is  logical,"  or  illogical, 
as  the  case  might  be ;  and  this  other  thrown  out 
with  a  certain  bravado,  as  a  man  might  unfurl  a 
banner,  at  the  beginning  of  many  a  long  and 
sonorous  story:  "I  am  a  proletarian,  you  see." 
Indeed,  we  saw  it  very  well.  God  forbid  that 
ever  I  should  find  him  handling  a  gun  in  Paris 
streets.  That  will  not  be  a  good  moment  for  the 
general  public. 

I  thought  his  two  phrases  very  much  repre- 
sented the  good  and  evil  of  his  class,  and,  to 
some  extent,  of  his  country.  It  is  a  strong  thing 
to  say  what  one  is,  and  not  be  ashamed  of  it; 
even  although  it  be  in  doubtful  taste  to  repeat 
the  statement  too  often  in  one  evening.  I 
should  not  admire  it  in  a  duke,  of  course ;  but  as 
times  go  the  trait  is  honourable  in  a  workman. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  at  all  a  strong  thing 
to  put  one's  reliance  upon  logic;  and  our  own 
logic  particularly,  for  it  is  generally  wrong.  We 
never  know  where  we  are  to  end  if  once  we  begin 

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following  words  or  doctors.  There  is  an  upright 
stock  in  a  man's  own  heart  that  is  trustier  than 
any  syllogism;  and  the  eyes,  and  the  sympathies, 
and  appetites  know  a  thing  or  two  that  have 
never  yet  been  stated  in  controversy.  Reasons 
are  as  plentiful  as  blackberries;  and,  like  fisti- 
cuffs, they  serve  impartially  with  all  sides.  Doc- 
trines do  not  stand  or  fall  by  their  proofs  and 
are  only  logical  in  so  far  as  they  are  cleverly  put. 
An  able  controversialist  no  more  than  an  able 
general  demonstrates  the  justice  of  his  cause. 
But  France  is  all  gone  wandering  after  one  or  two 
big  words ;  it  will  take  some  time  before  they  can 
be  satisfied  that  they  are  no  more  than  words, 
however  big;  and,  when  once  that  is  done,  they 
will  perhaps  find  logic  less  diverting. 

The  conversation  opened  with  details  of  the 
day's  shooting.  When  all  the  sportsmen  of  a 
village  shoot  over  the  village  territory  pro  indi- 
viso,  it  is  plain  that  many  questions  of  etiquette 
and  priority  must  arise. 

"Here  now,"  cried  the  landlord,  brandishing 
a  plate,  "here  is  a  field  of  beet-root.  Well. 
Here  am  I,  then.  I  advance,  do  I  not?  Eh 
bien!  sacristi;"  and  the  statement,  waxing  louder, 
rolls  off  into  a  reverberation  of  oaths,  the  speaker 
glaring  about  for  sympathy,  and  everybody  nod- 
ding his  head  to  him  in  the  name  of  peace. 

The  ruddy  Northman  told  some  tales  of  his  own 
prowess  in  keeping  order:  notably  one  of  a  Mar- 
quis. 

90 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

"Marquis,"  I  said,  "if  you  take  another  step 
I  fire  upon  you.  You  have  committed  a  dirti- 
ness, Marquis." 

Whereupon,  it  appeared,  the  Marquis  touched 
his  cap  and  withdrew. 

The  landlord  applauded  noisily.  "  It  was  well 
done,"  he  said.  " He  did  all  that  he  could.  He 
admitted  he  was  wrong."  And  then  oath  upon 
oath.  He  was  no  marquis-lover,  either,  but  he 
had  a  sense  of  justice  in  him,  this  proletarian 
host  of  ours. 

From  the  matter  of  hunting,  the  talk  veered 
into  a  general  comparison  of  Paris  and  the  coun- 
try. The  proletarian  beat  the  table  like  a  drum 
in  praise  of  Paris.  "What  is  Paris?  Paris  is 
the  cream  of  France.  There  are  no  Parisians; 
it  is  you,  and  I,  and  everybody  who  are  Parisians. 
A  man  has  eighty  chances  per  cent,  to  get  on  in 
the  world  in  Paris."  And  he  drew  a  vivid  sketch 
of  the  workman  in  a  den  no  bigger  than  a  dog- 
hutch,  making  articles  that  were  to  go  all  over 
the  world.  "Eh  bien,  quoi,  c'est  magnifique,  gal" 
cried  he. 

The  sad  Northman  interfered  in  praise  of  a 
peasant's  life;  he  thought  Paris  bad  for  men  and 
women.  "Centralisation,"  said  he 

But  the  landlord  was  at  his  throat  in  a  mo- 
ment. It  was  all  logical,  he  showed  him;  and 
all  magnificent.  "What  a  spectacle!  What  a 
glance  for  an  eye! "  And  the  dishes  reeled  upon 
the  table  under  a  cannonade  of  blows. 

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AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

Seeking  to  make  peace,  I  threw  in  a  word  in 
praise  of  the  liberty  of  opinion  in  France.  I 
could  hardly  have  shot  more  amiss.  There  was 
an  instant  silence  and  a  great  wagging  of  signi- 
ficant heads.  They  did  not  fancy  the  subject, 
it  was  plain,  but  they  gave  me  to  understand 
that  the  sad  Northman  was  a  martyr  on  account 
of  his  views.  "Ask  him  a  bit,"  said  they. 
"Just  ask  him." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  he,  in  his  quiet  way,  answering 
me,  although  I  had  not  spoken,  "I  am  afraid 
there  is  less  liberty  of  opinion  in  France  than 
you  may  imagine."  And  with  that  he  dropped 
his  eyes  and  seemed  to  consider  the  subject  at 
an  end. 

Our  curiosity  was  mightily  excited  at  this. 
How,  or  why,  or  when  was  this  lymphatic  bag- 
man martyred?  We  concluded  at  once  it  was 
on  some  religious  question,  and  brushed  up  our 
memories  of  the  Inquisition,  which  were  prin- 
cipally drawn  from  Poe's  horrid  story,  and  the 
sermon  in  Tristram  Shandy,  I  believe. 

On  the  morrow  we  had  an  opportunity  of  go- 
ing further  into  the  question;  for  when  we  rose 
very  early  to  avoid  a  sympathising  deputation 
at  our  departure,  we  found  the  hero  up  before 
us.  He  was  breaking  his  fast  on  white  wine  and 
raw  onions,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  character  of 
martyr,  I  conclude.  We  had  a  long  conversa- 
tion, and  made  out  what  we  wanted  in  spite  of 
his  reserve.  But  here  was  a  truly  curious  cir- 

92 


ORIGNY  SAINTE-BENOITE 

cumstance.  It  seems  possible  for  two  Scotsmen 
and  a  Frenchman  to  discuss  during  a  long  half- 
hour,  and  each  nationality  have  a  different  idea 
in  view  throughout.  It  was  not  till  the  very  end 
that  we  discovered  his  heresy  had  been  political, 
or  that  he  suspected  our  mistake.  The  terms 
and  spirit  in  which  he  spoke  of  his  political  be- 
liefs were,  in  our  eyes,  suited  to  religious  beliefs. 
And  vice  versa. 

Nothing  could  be  more  characteristic  of  the 
two  countries.  Politics  are  the  religion  of 
France;  as  Nanty  Ewart  would  have  said,  "A 

d d  bad  religion,"  while  we,  at  home,  keep 

most  of  our  bitterness  for  all  differences  about  a 
hymn-book  or  a  Hebrew  word  which,  perhaps, 
neither  of  the  parties  can  translate.  And  per- 
haps the  misconception  is  typical  of  many  others 
that  may  never  be  cleared  up ;  not  only  between 
people  of  different  race,  but  between  those  of 
different  sex. 

As  for  our  friend's  martyrdom,  he  was  a  Com- 
munist, or  perhaps  only  a  Communard,  which  is 
a  very  different  thing,  and  had  lost  one  or  more 
situations  in  consequence.  I  think  he  had  also 
been  rejected  in  marriage;  but  perhaps  he  had 
a  sentimental  way  of  considering  business  which 
deceived  me.  He  was  a  mild,  gentle  creature, 
any  way,  and  I  hope  he  has  got  a  better  situa- 
tion and  married  a  more  suitable  wife  since  then. 


93 


DOWN    THE  OISE 

TO    MOY 

/CARNIVAL  notoriously  cheated  us  at  first. 
y^(  Finding  us  easy  in  our  ways,  he  regretted 
having  let  us  off  so  cheaply,  and,  taking  me  aside, 
told  me  a  cock-and-bull  story,  with  the  moral 
of  another  five  francs  for  the  narrator.  The 
thing  was  palpably  absurd;  but  I  paid  up,  and 
at  once  dropped  all  friendliness  of  manner  and 
kept  him  in  his  place  as  an  inferior,  with  freezing 
British  dignity.  He  saw  in  a  moment  that  he 
had  gone  too  far  and  killed  a  willing  horse;  his 
face  fell ;  I  am  sure  he  would  have  refunded  if  he 
could  only  have  thought  of  a  decent  pretext.  He 
wished  me  to  drink  with  him,  but  I  would  none 
of  his  drinks.  He  grew  pathetically  tender  in 
his  professions,  but  I  walked  beside  him  in  si- 
lence or  answered  him  in  stately  courtesies,  and, 
when  we  got  to  the  landing-place,  passed  the 
word  in  English  slang  to  the  Cigarette. 

In  spite  of  the  false  scent  we  had  thrown  out 
the  day  before,  there  must  have  been  fifty  people 
about  the  bridge.  We  were  as  pleasant  as  we 
could  be  with  all  but  Carnival.  We  said  good-by, 

94 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

shaking  hands  with  the  old  gentleman  who  knew 
the  river  and  the  young  gentleman  who  had  a 
smattering  of  English,  but  never  a  word  for  Car- 
nival. Poor  Carnival!  here  was  a  humiliation. 
He  who  had  been  so  much  identified  with  the 
canoes,  who  had  given  orders  in  our  name,  who 
had  shown  off  the  boats  and  even  the  boat-men 
like  a  private  exhibition  of  his  own,  to  be  now 
so  publicly  shamed  by  the  lions  of  his  caravan! 
I  never  saw  anybody  look  more  crestfallen  than 
he.  He  hung  in  the  background,  coming  timidly 
forward  ever  and  again  as  he  thought  he  saw 
some  symptom  of  a  relenting  humour,  and  fall- 
ing hurriedly  back  when  he  encountered  a  cold 
stare.  Let  us  hope  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  him. 

I  would  not  have  mentioned  Carnival's  pec- 
cadillo had  not  the  thing  been  so  uncommon  in 
France.  This,  for  instance,  was  the  only  case 
of  dishonesty  or  even  sharp  practice  in  our  whole 
voyage.  We  talk  very  much  about  our  honesty 
in  England.  It  is  a  good  rule  to  be  on  your 
guard  wherever  you  hear  great  professions  about 
a  very  little  piece  of  virtue.  If  the  English 
could  only  hear  how  they  are  spoken  of  abroad, 
they  might  confine  themselves  for  a  while  to 
remedying  the  fact,  and  perhaps  even  when  that 
was  done,  give  us  fewer  of  their  airs. 

The  young  ladies,  the  graces  of  Origny,  were 
not  present  at  our  start;  but  when  we  got  round 
to  the  second  bridge,  behold,  it  was  black  with 
sight-seers!  We  were  loudly  cheered,  and  for  a 

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good  way  below  young  lads  and  lasses  ran  along 
the  bank,  still  cheering.  What  with  current 
and  paddling,  we  were  flashing  along  like  swal- 
lows. It  was  no  joke  to  keep  up  with  us  upon 
the  woody  shore.  But  the  girls  picked  up  their 
skirts,  as  if  they  were  sure  they  had  good  ankles, 
and  followed  until  their  breath  was  out.  The 
last  to  weary  were  the  three  graces  and  a  couple 
of  companions;  and  just  as  they,  too,  had  had 
enough,  the  foremost  of  the  three  leaped  upon 
a  tree-stump  and  kissed  her  hand  to  the  canoe- 
ists. Not  Diana  herself,  although  this  was  more 
of  a  Venus,  after  all,  could  have  done  a  graceful 
thing  more  gracefully.  "Come  back  again!" 
she  cried;  and  all  the  others  echoed  her;  and  the 
hills  about  Origny  repeated  the  words,  "Come 
back."  But  the  river  had  us  round  an  angle  in 
a  twinkling,  and  we  were  alone  with  the  green 
trees  and  running  water. 

Come  back?     There  is  no  coming  back,  young 
ladies,  on  the  impetuous  stream  of  life. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 
The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season  takes. 

And  we  must  all  set  our  pocket-watches  by  the 
clock  of  fate.  There  is  a  headlong,  forthright 
tide,  that  bears  away  man  with  his  fancies  like 
straw,  and  runs  fast  in  time  and  space.  It  is 
full  of  curves  like  this,  your  winding  river  of 
the  Oise,  and  lingers  and  returns  in  pleasant  pas- 
torals; and  yet,  rightly  thought  upon,  never  re- 

96 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

turns  at  all.  For  though  it  should  revisit  the 
same  acre  of  meadow  in  the  same  hour,  it  will 
have  made  an  ample  sweep  between-whiles ; 
many  little  streams  will  have  fallen  in;  many 
exhalations  risen  towards  the  sun;  and  even  al- 
though it  were  the  same  acre,  it  will  not  be  the 
same  river  Oise.  And  thus,  0  graces  of  Origny, 
although  the  wandering  fortune  of  my  life 
should  carry  me  back  again  to  where  you  await 
death's  whistle  by  the  river,  that  will  not  be  the 
old  I  who  walks  the  street;  and  those  wives  and 
mothers,  say,  will  those  be  you? 

There  was  never  any  mistake  about  the  Oise, 
as  a  matter  of  fact.  In  these  upper  reaches  it 
was  still  in  a  prodigious  hurry  for  the  sea.  It 
ran  so  fast  and  merrily,  through  all  the  windings 
of  its  channel,  that  I  strained  my  thumb  fighting 
with  the  rapids,  and  had  to  paddle  all  the  rest  of 
the  .way  with  one  hand  turned  up.  Sometimes 
it  had  to  serve  mills ;  and  being  still  a  little  river, 
ran  very  dry  and  shallow  in  the  meanwhile.  We 
had  to  put  our  legs  out  of  the  boat,  and  shove 
ourselves  off  the  sand  of  the  bottom  with  our 
feet.  And  still  it  went  on  its  way  singing  among 
the  poplars,  and  making  a  green  valley  in  the 
world.  After  a  good  woman,  and  a  good  book, 
and  tobacco,  there  is  nothing  so  agreeable  on 
earth  as  a  river.  I  forgave  it  its  attempt  on  my 
life;  which  was,  after  all,  one  part  owing  to  the 
unruly  winds  of  heaven  that  had  blown  down 
the  tree,  one  part  to  my  own  mismanagement, 

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AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

and  only  a  third  part  to  the  river  itself,  and  that 
not  out  of  malice,  but  from  its  great  pre-occupa- 
tion  over  its  own  business  of  getting  to  the  sea. 
A  difficult  business,  too;  for  the  detours  it  had 
to  make  are  not  to  be  counted.  The  geogra- 
phers seem  to  have  given  up  the  attempt;  for  I 
found  no  map  represent  the  infinite  contortion 
of  its  course.  A  fact  will  say  more  than  any  of 
them.  After  we  had  been  some  hours,  three,  if 
I  mistake  not,  flitting  by  the  trees  at  this  smooth, 
breakneck  gallop,  when  we  came  upon  a  hamlet 
and  asked  where  we  were,  we  had  got  no  farther 
than. four  kilometres  (say  two  miles  and  a  half) 
from  Origny.  If  it  were  not  for  the  honour  of 
the  thing  (in  the  Scots  saying) ,  we  might  almost 
as  well  have  been  standing  still. 

We  lunched  on  a  meadow  inside  a  parallelo- 
gram of  poplars.  The  leaves  danced  and  prat- 
tled in  the  wind  all  round  about  us.  The  river 
hurried  on  meanwhile,  and  seemed  to  chide  at 
our  delay.  Little  we  cared.  The  river  knew 
where  it  was  going;  not  so  we;  the  less  our  hurry, 
where  we  found  good  quarters,  and  a  pleasant 
theatre  for  a  pipe.  At  that  hour  stock-brokers 
were  shouting  in  Paris  Bourse  for  two  or  three 
per  cent.;  but  we  minded  them  as  little  as  the 
sliding  stream,  and  sacrificed  a  hecatomb  of  min- 
utes to  the  gods  of  tobacco  and  digestion.  Hurry 
is  the  resource  of  the  faithless.  Where  a  man 
can  trust  his  own  heart,  and  those  of  his  friends, 
to-morrow  is  as  good  as  to-day.  And  if  he  die 

98 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

in  the  meanwhile,  why,  then,  there,  he  dies,  and 
the  question  is  solved. 

We  had  to  take  to  the  canal  in  the  course  of 
the  afternoon ;  because  where  it  crossed  the  river 
there  was  not  a  bridge,  but  a  siphon.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  an  excited  fellow  on  the  bank  we 
should  have  paddled  right  into  the  siphon,  and 
thenceforward  not  paddled  any  more.  We  met  a 
man,  a  gentleman,  on  the  towpath,  who  was 
much  interested  in  our  cruise.  And  I  was  wit- 
ness to  a  strange  seizure  of  lying  suffered  by  the 
Cigarette;  who,  because  his  knife  came  from 
Norway,  narrated  all  sorts  of  adventures  in  that 
country,  where  he  has  never  been.  He  was  quite 
feverish  at  the  end,  and  pleaded  demoniacal 
possession. 

Moy  (pronounce  Moy)  was  a  pleasant  little 
village,  gathered  round  a  chateau  in  a  moat.  The 
air  was  perfumed  with  hemp  from  neighbouring 
fields.  At  the  Golden  Sheep  we  found  excellent 
entertainment.  German  shells  from  the  siege  of 
La  Fere,  Nurnberg  figures,  gold-fish  in  a  bowl, 
and  all  manner  of  knick-knacks,  embellished  the 
public  room.  The  landlady  was  a  stout,  plain, 
short-sighted,  motherly  body,  with  something 
not  far  short  of  a  genius  for  cookery.  She  had 
a  guess  of  her  excellence  herself.  After  every 
dish  was  sent  in,  she  would  come  and  look  on  at 
the  dinner  for  a  while,  with  puckered,  blinking 
eyes.  "C'est  bon,  n'est-ce  pas?"  she  would  say; 
and,  when  she  had  received  a  proper  answer, 

99 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

she  disappeared  into  the  kitchen.  That  com- 
mon French  dish,  partridge  and  cabbages,  be- 
came a  new  thing  in  my  eyes  at  the  Golden 
Sheep;  and  many  subsequent  dinners  have  bit- 
terly disappointed  me  in  consequence.  Sweet 
was  our  rest  in  the  Golden  Sheep  at  Moy. 


100 


LA  FERE  OF  CURSED   MEMORY 

WE  lingered  in  Moy  a  good  part  of  the 
day,  for  we  were  fond  of  being  philo- 
sophical, and  scorned  long  journeys  and  early 
starts  on  principle.  The  place,  moreover,  in- 
vited to  repose.  People  in  elaborate  shooting 
costumes  sallied  from  the  chateau  with  guns  and 
game-bags;  and  this  was  a  pleasure  in  itself,  to 
remain  behind  while  these  elegant  pleasure- 
seekers  took  the  first  of  the  morning.  In  this 
way  all  the  world  may  be  an  aristocrat,  and  play 
the  duke  among  marquises,  and  the  reigning 
monarch  among  dukes,  if  he  will  only  outvie 
them  in  tranquillity.  An  imperturbable  demean- 
our comes  from  perfect  patience.  Quiet  minds 
cannot  be  perplexed  or  frightened,  but  go  on  in 
fortune  or  misfortune  at  their  own  private  pace, 
like  a  clock  during  a  thunderstorm. 

We  made  a  very  short  day  of  it  to  La  Fere; 
but  the  dusk  was  falling  and  a  small  rain  had 
begun  before  we  stowed  the  boats.  La  Fere  is  a 
fortified  town  in  a  plain,  and  has  two  belts  of 
rampart.  Between  the  first  and  the  second  ex- 
tends a  region  of  waste  land  and  cultivated 

101 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

patches.  Here  and  there  along  the  wayside 
were  posters  forbidding  trespass  in  the  name  of 
military  engineering.  At  last  a  second  gateway 
admitted  us  to  the  town  itself.  Lighted  windows 
looked  gladsome,  whiffs  of  comfortable  cookery 
came  abroad  upon  the  air.  The  town  was  full  of 
the  military  reserve,  out  for  the  French  Autumn 
Manoeuvres,  and  the  reservists  walked  speedily 
and  wore  their  formidable  great-coats.  It  was  a 
fine  night  to  be  within  doors  over  dinner,  and 
hear  the  rain  upon  the  windows. 

The  Cigarette  and  I  could  not  sufficiently  con- 
gratulate each  other  on  the  prospect,  for  we  had 
been  told  there  was  a  capital  inn  at  La  Fere. 
Such  a  dinner  as  we  were  going  to  eat !  such  beds 
as  we  were  to  sleep  in !  and  all  the  while  the  rain 
raining  on  houseless  folk  over  all  the  poplared 
country-side.  It  made  our  mouths  water.  The 
inn  bore  the  name  of  some  woodland  animal, 
stag,  or  hart,  or  hind,  I  forget  which.  But  I 
shall  never  forget  how  spacious  and  how  emi- 
nently habitable  it  looked  as  we  drew  near.  The 
carriage  entry  was  lighted  up,  not  by  intention, 
but  from  the  mere  superfluity  of  fire  and  candle 
in  the  house.  A  rattle  of  many  dishes  came  to 
our  ears;  we  sighted  a  great  field  of  tablecloth; 
the  kitchen  glowed  like  a  forge  and  smelt  like  a 
garden  of  things  to  eat. 

Into  this,  the  inmost,  shrine  and  physiological 
heart  of  a  hostelry,  with  all  its  furnaces  in  action 
and  ah1  its  dressers  charged  with  viands,  you  are 

102 


LA  FERE  OF  CURSED  MEMORY 

now  to  suppose  us  making  our  triumphal  entry,  a 
pair  of  damp  rag-and-bone  men,  each  with  a  limp 
india-rubber  bag  upon  his  arm.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve I  have  a  sound  view  of  that  kitchen;  I  saw 
it  through  a  sort  of  glory,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
crowded  with  the  snowy  caps  of  cookmen,  who 
all  turned  round  from  their  saucepans  and  looked 
at  us  with  surprise.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
the  landlady,  however;  there  she  was,  heading 
her  army,  a  flushed,  angry  woman,  full  of  affairs. 
Her  I  asked  politely — too  politely,  thinks  the 
Cigarette — if  we  could  have  beds,  she  surveying 
us  coldly  from  head  to  foot. 

"You  wiU  find  beds  in  the  suburb,"  she  re- 
marked. "We  are  too  busy  for  the  like  of  you." 

If  we  could  make  an  entrance,  change  our 
clothes,  and  order  a  bottle  of  wine,  I  felt  sure  we 
could  put  things  right;  so  said  I,  "If  we  cannot 
sleep,  we  may  at  least  dine," — and  was  for  de- 
positing my  bag. 

What  a  terrible  convulsion  of  nature  was  that 
which  followed  in  the  landlady's  face !  She  made 
a  run  at  us  and  stamped  her  foot. 

"Out  with  you, — out  of  the  door!"  she 
screeched.  ' '  Sortez  !  sortez  !  sortez  par  la  porte  ! ' ' 

I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  next  mo- 
ment we  were  out  in  the  rain  and  darkness,  and 
I  was  cursing  before  the  carriage  entry  like  a  dis- 
appointed mendicant.  Where  were  the  boating 
men  of  Belgium  ?  where  the  Judge  and  his  good 
wines?  and  where  the  Graces  of  Origny  ?  Black, 

103 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

black  was  the  night  after  the  firelit  kitchen,  but 
what  was  that  to  the  blackness  in  our  heart? 
This  was  not  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  re- 
fused a  lodging.  Often  and  often  have  I  plan- 
ned what  I  should  do  if  such  a  misadventure 
happened  to  me  again.  And  nothing  is  easier 
to  plan.  But  to  put  in  execution,  with  the  heart 
boiling  at  the  indignity?  Try  it;  try  it  only 
once;  and  tell  me  what  you  did. 

It  is  all  very  fine  to  talk  about  tramps  and 
morality.  Six  hours  of  police  surveillance  (such 
as  I  have  had)  or  one  brutal  rejection  from  an 
inn-door  change  your  views  upon  the  subject  like 
a  course  of  lectures.  As  long  as  you  keep  in  the 
upper  regions,  with  all  the  world  bowing  to  you 
as  you  go,  social  arrangements  have  a  very 
handsome  air;  but  once  get  under  the  wheels  and 
you  wish  society  were  at  the  devil.  I  will  give 
most  respectable  men  a  fortnight  of  such  a  life, 
and  then  I  will  offer  them  twopence  for  what  re- 
mains of  their  morality. 

For  my  part,  when  I  was  turned  out  of  the 
Stag,  or  the  Hind,  or  whatever  it  was,  I  would 
have  set  the  temple  of  Diana  on  fire  if  it  had  been 
handy.  There  was  no  crime  complete  enough 
to  express  my  disapproval  of  human  institutions. 
As  for  the  Cigarette,  I  never  knew  a  man  so  al- 
tered. "  We  have  been  taken  for  pedlars  again, ' ' 
said  he.  "Good  God,  what  it  must  be  to  be  a 
pedlar  in  reality!"  He  particularised  a  com- 
plaint for  every  joint  in  the  landlady's  body. 

104 


LA  FERE  OF  CURSED  MEMORY 

Timon  was  a  philanthropist  alongside  of  him. 
And  then,  when  he  was  at  the  top  of  his  maledic- 
tory bent,  he  would  suddenly  break  away  and 
begin  whimperingly  to  commiserate  the  poor. 
"  I  hope  to  God,"  he  said, — and  I  trust  the  prayer 
was  answered,—  "that  I  shall  never  be  uncivil 
to  a  pedlar."  Was  this  the  imperturbable  Ciga- 
rette? This,  this  was  he.  Oh,  change  beyond 
report,  thought,  or  belief! 

Meantime  the  heaven  wept  upon  our  heads; 
and  the  windows  grew  brighter  as  the  night  in- 
creased in  darkness.  We  trudged  in  and  out  of 
La  Fere  streets ;  we  saw  shops,  and  private  houses 
where  people  were  copiously  dining;  we  saw 
stables  where  carters'  nags  had  plenty  of  fodder 
and  clean  straw;  we  saw  no  end  of  reservists, 
who  were  very  sorry  for  themselves  this  wet 
night,  I  doubt  not,  and  yearned  for  their  coun- 
try homes ;  but  had  they  not  each  man  his  place 
in  La  Fere  barracks?  And  we,  what  had 
we? 

There  seemed  to  be  no  other  inn  in  the  whole 
town.  People  gave  us  directions,  which  we  fol- 
lowed as  best  we  could,  generally  with  the  effect 
of  bringing  us  out  again  upon  the  scene  of  our 
disgrace.  We  were  very  sad  people  indeed,  by 
the  time  we  had  gone  all  over  La  Fere;  and  the 
Cigarette  had  already  made  up  his  mind  to  lie 
under  a  poplar  and  sup  off  a  loaf  of  bread.  But 
right  at  the  other  end,  the  house  next  the  town- 
gate  was  full  of  light  and  bustle.  "Bazin,  au- 

105 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

bergiste,  loge  a  pied,"  was  the  sign.  "A  la  Croix 
de  Malte."  There  were  we  received. 

The  room  was  full  of  noisy  reservists  drinking 
and  smoking ;  and  we  were  very  glad  indeed  when 
the  drums  and  bugles  began  to  go  about  the 
streets,  and  one  and  all  had  to  snatch  shakoes 
and  be  off  for  the  barracks. 

Bazin  was  a  tall  man,  running  to  fat;  soft- 
spoken,  with  a  delicate,  gentle  face.  We  asked 
him  to  share  our  wine;  but  he  excused  himself, 
having  pledged  reservists  all  day  long.  This  was 
a  very  different  type  of  the  workman-innkeeper 
from  the  bawling,  disputatious  fellow  at  Origny. 
He  also  loved  Paris,  where  he  had  worked  as  a 
decorative  painter  in  his  youth.  There  were 
such  opportunities  for  self-instruction  there,  he 
said.  And  if  any  one  has  read  Zola's  description 
of  the  workman's  marriage-party  visiting  the 
Louvre  they  would  do  well  to  have  heard  Bazin 
by  way  of  antidote.  He  had  delighted  in  the 
museums  in  his  youth.  "One  sees  there  little 
miracles  of  work,"  he  said;  "that  is  what  makes 
a  good  workman;  it  kindles  a  spark."  We  asked 
him  how  he  managed  in  La  Fere.  "I  am  mar- 
ried," he  said,  "and  I  have  my  pretty  children. 
But  frankly,  it  is  no  life  at  all.  From  morning 
to  night  I  pledge  a  pack  of  good-enough  fellows 
who  know  nothing." 

It  faired  as  the  night  went  on,  and  the  moon 
came  out  of  the  clouds.  We  sat  in  front  of  the 
door,  talking  softly  with  Bazin.  At  the  guard- 

106 


LA  FERE  OF  CURSED  MEMORY 

house  opposite  the  guard  was  being  forever 
turned  out,  as  trains  of  field  artillery  kept  clank- 
ing in  out  of  the  night  or  patrols  of  horsemen 
trotted  by  in  their  cloaks.  Madame  Bazin  came 
out  after  a  while;  she  was  tired  with  her  day's 
work,  I  suppose;  and  she  nestled  up  to  her  hus- 
band and  laid  her  head  upon  his  breast.  He  had 
his  arm  about  her  and  kept  gently  patting  her  on 
the  shoulder.  I  think  Bazin  was  right,  and  he 
was  really  married.  Of  how  few  people  can  the 
same  be  said! 

Little  did  the  Bazins  know  how  much  they 
served  us.  We  were  charged  for  candles,  for 
food  and  drink,  and  for  the  beds  we  slept  in. 
But  there  was  nothing  in  the  bill  for  the  hus- 
band's pleasant  talk;  nor  for  the  pretty  spectacle 
of  their  married  life.  And  there  was  yet  another 
item  uncharged.  For  these  people's  politeness 
really  set  us  up  again  in  our  own  esteem.  We 
had  a  thirst  for  consideration;  the  sense  of  insult 
was  still  hot  in  our  spirits;  and  civil  usage  seemed 
to  restore  us  to  our  position  in  the  world. 

How  little  we  pay  our  way  in  life!  Although 
we  have  our  purses  continually  in  our  hand,  the 
better  part  of  service  goes  still  unrewarded.  But 
I  like  to  fancy  that  a  grateful  spirit  gives  as  good 
as  it  gets.  Perhaps  the  Bazins  knew  how  much 
I  liked  them?  perhaps  they,  also,  were  healed 
for  some  slights  by  the  thanks  that  I  gave  them 
in  my  manner? 


107 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

THROUGH  THE  GOLDEN  VALLEY 

BELOW  La  Fere  the  river  runs  through  a  piece 
of  open  pastoral  country;  green,  opulent, 
loved  by  breeders;  called  the  Golden  Valley.  In 
wide  sweeps,  and  with  a  swift  and  equable  gallop, 
the  ceaseless  stream  of  water  visits  and  makes 
green  the  fields.  Kine,  and  horses,  and  little 
humorous  donkeys  browse  together  in  the  mead- 
ows, and  come  down  in  troops  to  the  river-side  to 
drink.  They  make  a  strange  feature  in  the  land- 
scape ;  above  all  when  startled,  and  you  see  them 
galloping  to  and  fro,  with  their  incongruous  forms 
and  faces.  It  gives  a  feeling  as  of  great,  unfenced 
pampas,  and  the  herds  of  wandering  nations. 
There  were  hills  in  the  distance  upon  either  hand ; 
and  on  one  side,  the  river  sometimes  bordered  on 
the  wooded  spurs  of  Coucy  and  St.  Gobain. 

The  artillery  were  practising  at  La  Fere ;  and 
soon  the  cannon  of  heaven  joined  in  that  loud 
play.  Two  continents  of  cloud  met  and  ex- 
changed salvos  overhead;  while  all  round  the 
horizon  we  could  see  sunshine  and  clear  air  upon 
the  hills.  What  with  the  guns  and  the  thunder, 

108 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

the  herds  were  all  frightened  in  the  Golden  Valley. 
We  could  see  them  tossing  their  heads,  and  run- 
ning to  and  fro  in  timorous  indecision;  and  when 
they  had  made  up  their  minds,  and  the  donkey 
followed  the  horse,  and  the  cow  was  after  the 
donkey,  we  could  hear  their  hooves  thundering 
abroad  over  the  meadows.  It  had  a  martial 
sound,  like  cavalry  charges.  And  altogether,  as 
far  as  the  ears  are  concerned,  we  had  a  very 
rousing  battle-piece  performed  for  our  amuse- 
ment. 

At  last,  the  guns  and  the  thunder  dropped  off; 
the  sun  shone  on  the  wet  meadows;  the  air  was 
scented  with  the  breath  of  rejoicing  trees  and 
grass;  and  the  river  kept  unweariedly  carrying 
us  on  at  its  best  pace.  There  was  a  manufac- 
turing district  about  Chauny ;  and  after  that  the 
banks  grew  so  high  that  they  hid  the  adjacent 
country,  and  we  could  see  nothing  but  clay  sides, 
and  one  willow  after  another.  Only  here  and 
there  we  passed  by  a  village  or  a  ferry,  and  some 
wondering  child  upon  the  bank  would  stare  after 
us  until  we  turned  the  corner.  I  daresay  we 
continued  to  paddle  in  that  child's  dreams  for 
many  a  night  after. 

Sun  and  shower  alternated  like  day  and  night, 
making  the  hours  longer  by  their  variety.  When 
the  showers  were  heavy  I  could  feel  each  drop 
striking  through  my  jersey  to  my  warm  skin;  and 
the  accumulation  of  small  shocks  put  me  nearly 
beside  myself.  I  decided  I  should  buy  a  mack- 

109 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

intosh  at  Noyon.  It  is  nothing  to  get  wet;  but 
the  misery  of  these  individual  pricks  of  cold  all 
over  my  body  at  the  same  instant  of  time  made 
me  flail  the  water  with  my  paddle  like  a  madman. 
The  Cigarette  was  greatly  amused  by  these  ebul- 
litions. It  gave  him  something  else  to  look  at 
besides  clay  banks  and  willows. 

All  the  time  the  river  stole  away  like  a  thief 
in  straight  places,  or  swung  round  corners  with 
an  eddy;  the  willows  nodded  and  were  under- 
mined all  day  long;  the  clay  banks  tumbled  in; 
the  Oise,  which  had  been  so  many  centuries  mak- 
ing the  Golden  Valley,  seemed  to  have  changed 
its  fancy  and  be  bent  upon  undoing  its  perform- 
ance. What  a  number  of  things  a  river  does  by 
simply  following  Gravity  in  the  innocence  of  its 
heart  I 


110 


NOYON  CATHEDRAL 

NOYON  stands  about  a  mile  from  the  river, 
in  a  little  plain  surrounded  by  wooded  hills, 
and  entirely  covers  an  eminence  with  its  tile 
roofs,  surmounted  by  a  long,  straight-backed 
cathedral  with  two  stiff  towers.  As  we  got  into 
the  town,  the  tile  roofs  seemed  to  tumble  up  hill 
one  upon  another,  in  the  oddest  disorder;  but 
for  all  their  scrambling  they  did  not  attain  above 
the  knees  of  the  cathedral,  which  stood,  upright 
and  solemn,  over  all.  As  the  streets  drew  near 
to  this  presiding  genius,  through  the  market- 
place under  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  they  grew  emptier 
and  more  composed.  Blank  walls  and  shuttered 
windows  were  turned  to  the  great  edifice,  and 
grass  grew  on  the  white  causeway.  "Put  off 
thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet,  for  the  place 
whereon  thou  standest  is  holy  ground."  The 
Hotel  du  Nord,  nevertheless,  lights  its  secular 
tapers  within  a  stone-cast  of  the  church;  and 
we  had  the  superb  east  end  before  our  eyes  all 
morning  from  the  window  of  our  bedroom.  I 
have  seldom  looked  on  the  east  end  of  a  church 
with  more  complete  sympathy.  As  it  flanges 

111 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

out  in  three  wide  terraces,  and  settles  down 
broadly  on  the  earth,  it  looks  like  the  poop  of 
some  great  old  battle-ship.  Hollow-backed  but- 
tresses carry  vases,  which  figure  for  the  stern 
lanterns.  There  is  a  roll  in  the  ground,  and  the 
towers  just  appear  above  the  pitch  of  the  roof, 
as  though  the  good  ship  were  bowing  lazily  over 
an  Atlantic  swell.  At  any  moment  it  might  be 
a  hundred  feet  away  from  you,  climbing  the  next 
billow.  At  any  moment  a  window  might  open, 
and  some  old  admiral  thrust  forth  a  cocked  hat 
and  proceed  to  take  an  observation.  The  old 
admirals  sail  the  sea  no  longer;  the  old  ships  of 
battle  are  all  broken  up,  and  live  only  in  pictures; 
but  this,  that  was  a  church  before  ever  they  were 
thought  upon,  is  still  a  church,  and  makes  as 
brave  an  appearance  by  the  Oise.  The  cathe- 
dral and  the  river  are  probably  the  two  oldest 
things  for  miles  around ;  and  certainly  they  have 
both  a  grand  old  age. 

The  Sacristan  took  us  to  the  top  of  one  of  the 
towers,  and  showed  us  the  five  bells  hanging  in 
their  loft.  From  above,  the  town  was  a  tessel- 
lated pavement  of  roofs  and  gardens;  the  old 
line  of  rampart  was  plainly  traceable;  and  the 
Sacristan  pointed  out  to  us,  far  across  the  plain 
in  a  bit  of  gleaming  sky  between  two  clouds,  the 
towers  of  Chateau  Coucy. 

I  find  I  never  weary  of  great  churches.  It  is 
my  favourite  kind  of  mountain  scenery.  Man- 
kind was  never  so  happily  inspired  as  when  it 

112 


NOYON  CATHEDRAL 

made  a  cathedral:  a  thing  as  single  and  specious 
as  a  statue  to  the  first  glance,  and  yet,  on  exam- 
ination, as  lively  and  interesting  as  a  forest  in 
detail.  The  height  of  spires  cannot  be  taken  by 
trigonometry;  they  measure  absurdly  short,  but 
how  tall  they  are  to  the  admiring  eye  I  And 
where  we  have  so  many  elegant  proportions, 
growing  one  out  of  the  other,  and  all  together 
into  one,  it  seems  as  if  proportion  transcended 
itself  and  became  something  different  and  more 
imposing.  I  could  never  fathom  how  a  man 
dares  to  lift  up  his  voice  to  preach  in  a  cathedral. 
What  is  he  to  say  that  will  not  be  an  anti- 
climax? For  though  I  have  heard  a  consider- 
able variety  of  sermons,  I  never  yet  heard  one 
that  was  so  expressive  as  a  cathedral.  'T  is  the 
best  preacher  itself,  and  preaches  day  and  night ; 
not  only  telling  you  of  man's  art  and  aspirations 
in  the  past,  but  convicting  your  own  soul  of  ar- 
dent sympathies ;  or  rather,  like  all  good  preach- 
ers, it  sets  you  preaching  to  yourself, — and  every 
man  is  his  own  doctor  of  divinity  in  the  last  re- 
sort. 

As  I  sat  outside  of  the  hotel  in  the  course  of 
the  afternoon,  the  sweet,  groaning  thunder  of 
the  organ  floated  out  of  the  church  like  a  sum- 
mons. I  was  not  averse,  liking  the  theatre  so 
well,  to  sit  out  an  act  or  two  of  the  play,  but  I 
could  never  rightly  make  out  the  nature  of  the 
service  I  beheld.  Four  or  five  priests  and  as 
many  choristers  were  singing  Miserere  before  the 

113 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

high  altar  when  I  went  in.  There  was  no  con- 
gregation but  a  few  old  women  on  chairs  and 
old  men  kneeling  on  the  pavement.  After  a 
while  a  long  train  of  young  girls,  walking  two 
and  two,  each  with  a  lighted  taper  in  her  hand, 
and  all  dressed  in  black  with  a  white  veil,  came 
from  behind  the  altar  and  began  to  descend  the 
nave;  the  four  first  carrying  a  Virgin  and  Child 
upon  a  table.  The  priests  and  choristers  arose 
from  their  knees  and  followed  after,  singing 
"Ave  Mary"  as  they  went.  In  this  order  they 
made  the  circuit  of  the  cathedral,  passing  twice 
before  me  where  I  leaned  against  a  pillar.  The 
priest  who  seemed  of  most  consequence  was  a 
strange,  down-looking  old  man.  He  kept  mum- 
bling prayers  with  his  lips;  but,  as  he  looked 
upon  me  darkling,  it  did  not  seem  as  if  prayer 
were  uppermost  in  his  heart.  Two  others,  who 
bore  the  burden  of  the  chant,  were  stout,  brutal, 
military-looking  men  of  forty,  with  bold,  over- 
fed eyes;  they  sang  with  some  lustiness,  and 
trolled  forth  "Ave  Mary"  like  a  garrison  catch. 
The  little  girls  were  timid  and  grave.  As  they 
footed  slowly  up  the  aisle,  each  one  took  a  mo- 
ment's glance  at  the  Englishman;  and  the  big 
nun  who  played  marshal  fairly  stared  him  out  of 
countenance.  As  for  the  choristers,  from  first 
to  last  they  misbehaved  as  only  boys  can  misbe- 
have, and  cruelly  marred  the  performance  with 
their  antics. 

I  understood  a  great  deal  of  the  spirit  of  what 
114 


NOYON  CATHEDRAL 

went  on.  Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  not  to 
understand  the  Miserere,  which  I  take  to  be  the 
composition  of  an  atheist.  If  it  ever  be  a  good 
thing  to  take  such  despondency  to  heart,  the 
Miserere  is  the  right  music  and  a  cathedral  a  fit 
scene.  So  far  I  am  at  one  with  the  Catholics, — 
an  odd  name  for  them,  after  all!  But  why,  in 
God's  name,  these  holiday  choristers?  why  these 
priests  who  steal  wandering  looks  about  the  con- 
gregation while  they  feign  to  be  at  prayer?  why 
this  fat  nun,  who  rudely  arranges  her  procession 
and  shakes  delinquent  virgins  by  the  elbow? 
why  this  spitting,  and  snuffing,  and  forgetting 
of  keys,  and  the  thousand  and  one  little  misad- 
ventures that  disturb  a  frame  of  mind,  labori- 
ously edified  with  chants  and  organings?  In 
any  play-house  reverend  fathers  may  see  what 
can  be  done  with  a  little  art,  and  how,  to  move 
high  sentiments,  it  is  necessary  to  drill  the  super- 
numeraries and  have  every  stool  in  its  proper 
place. 

One  other  circumstance  distressed  me.  I 
could  bear  a  Miserere  myself,  having  had  a  good 
deal  of  open-air  exercise  of  late;  but  I  wished 
the  old  people  somewhere  else.  It  was  neither 
the  right  sort  of  music  nor  the  right  sort  of 
divinity  for  men  and  women  who  have  come 
through  most  accidents  by  this  time,  and  prol> 
ably  have  an  opinion  of  their  own  upon  the  tragic 
element  in  life.  A  person  up  in  years  can  gen- 
erally do  his  own  Miserere  for  himself;  although 

115 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

Ijiotice  that  such  an  one  often  prefers  Jubilate 
Deo  for  his  ordinary  singing.  On  the  whole, 
the  most  religious  exercise  for  the  aged  is  prob- 
ably to  recall  their  own  experience;  so  many 
friends  dead,  so  many  hopes  disappointed,  so 
many  sh'ps  and  stumbles,  and  withal  so  many 
bright  days  and  smiling  providences;  there  is 
surely  the  matter  of  a  very  eloquent  sermon  in 
all  this. 

On  the  whole  I  was  greatly  solemnised.  In 
the  little  pictorial  map  of  our  whole  Inland  Voy- 
age, which  my  fancy  still  preserves,  and  some- 
times unrolls  for  the  amusement  of  odd  moments, 
Noyon  cathedral  figures  on  a  most  preposterous 
scale,  and  must  be  nearly  as  large  as  the  depart- 
ment. I  can  still  see  the  faces  of  the  priests  as 
if  they  were  at  my  elbow,  and  hear  Ave  Maria, 
ora  pro  nobis  sounding  through  the  church.  All 
Noyon  is  blotted  out  for  me  by  these  superior 
memories;  and  I  do  not  care  to  say  more  about 
the  place.  It  was  but  a  stack  of  brown  roofs  at 
the  best,  where  I  believe  people  live  very  repu- 
tably in  a  quiet  way;  but  the  shadow  of  the 
church  falls  upon  it  when  the  sun  is  low,  and  the 
five  bells  are  heard  in  all  quarters,  telling  that 
the  organ  has  begun.  If  ever  I  join  the  church 
of  Rome,  I  shall  stipulate  to  be  Bishop  of  Noyon 
on  the  Oise. 


116 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

TO    COMPIEGNE 

r  I^HE  most  patient  people  grow  weary  at  last 
-i-  with  being  continually  wetted  with  rain ;  ex- 
cept, of  course,  in  the  Scottish  Highlands,  where 
there  are  not  enough  fine  intervals  to  point  the 
difference.  That  was  like  to  be  our  case  the 
day  we  left  Noyon.  I  remember  nothing  of  the 
voyage;  it  was  nothing  but  clay  banks,  and  wil- 
lows, and  rain;  incessant,  pitiless,  beating  rain; 
until  we  stopped  to  lunch  at  a  little  inn  at  Pim- 
prez,  where  the  canal  ran  very  near  the  river. 
We  were  so  sadly  drenched  that  the  landlady 
lit  a  few  sticks  in  the  chimney  for  our  comfort; 
there  we  sat  in  a  steam  of  vapour,  lamenting  our 
concerns.  The  husband  donned  a  game-bag  and 
strode  out  to  shoot;  the  wife  sat  in  a  far  corner 
watching  us.  I  think  we  were  worth  looking  at. 
We  grumbled  over  the  misfortune  of  La  Fere ;  we 
forecast  other  La  Feres  in  the  future, — although 
things  went  better  with  the  Cigarette  for  spokes- 
man; he  had  more  aplomb  altogether  than  I; 
and  a  dull,  positive  way  of  approaching  a  land- 
lady that  carried  off  the  india-rubber  bags.  Talk- 
ing of  La  Fere  put  us  talking  of  the  reservists. 

117 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

"Reservery,"  said  he,  "seems  a  pretty  mean 
way  to  spend  one's  autumn  holiday." 

"About  as  mean,"  returned  I,  dejectedly,  "as 
canoeing." 

"These  gentlemen  travel  for  their  pleasure?" 
asked  the  landlady,  with  unconscious  irony. 

It  was  too  much.  The  scales  fell  from  our 
eyes.  Another  wet  day,  it  was  determined,  and 
we  put  the  boats  into  the  train. 

The  weather  took  the  hint.  That  was  our 
last  wetting.  The  afternoon  faired  up;  grand 
clouds  stiU  voyaged  in  the  sky,  but  now  singly, 
and  with  a  depth  of  blue  around  their  path ;  and 
a  sunset,  in  the  daintiest  rose  and  gold,  inaugu- 
rated a  thick  night  of  stars  and  a  month  of  un- 
broken weather.  At  the  same  time,  the  river 
began  to  give  us  a  better  outlook  into  the  coun- 
try. The  banks  were  not  so  high,  the  willows 
disappeared  from  along  the  margin,  and  pleas- 
ant hills  stood  all  along  its  course  and  marked 
their  profile  on  the  sky. 

In  a  little  while  the  canal,  coming  to  its  last 
lock,  began  to  discharge  its  water-houses  on  the 
Oise ;  so  that  we  had  no  lack  of  company  to  fear. 
Here  were  all  our  own  friends;  the  Deo  Gratias 
of  Conde  and  the  Four  Sons  of  Aymon  journeyed 
cheerily  down  the  stream  along  with  us;  we  ex- 
changed waterside  pleasantries  with  the  steers- 
man perched  among  the  lumber,  or  the  driver 
hoarse  with  bawling  to  his  horses;  and  the  chil- 
dren came  and  looked  over  the  side  as  we  pad- 

118 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

died  by.  We  had  never  known  all  this  while 
how  much  we  missed  them;  but  it  gave  us  a  fillip 
to  see  the  smoke  from  their  chimneys. 

A  little  below  this  junction  we  made  another 
meeting  of  yet  more  account.  For  there  we  were 
joined  by  the  Aisne,  already  a  far-travelled  river 
and  fresh  out  of  Champagne.  Here  ended  the 
adolescence  of  the  Oise;  this  was  his  marriage 
day;  thenceforward  he  had  a  stately,  brimming 
march,  conscious  of  his  own  dignity  and  sundry 
dams.  He  became  a  tranquil  feature  in  the 
scene.  The  trees  and  towns  saw  themselves  in 
him,  as  in  a  mirror.  He  carried  the  canoes 
lightly  on  his  broad  breast;  there  was  no  need 
to  work  hard  against  an  eddy,  but  idleness  be- 
came the  order  of  the  day,  and  mere  straight- 
forward dipping  of  the  paddle,  now  on  this  side, 
now  on  that,  without  intelligence  or  effort. 
Truly  we  were  coming  into  halcyon  weather 
upon  all  accounts,  and  were  floated  towards  the 
sea  like  gentlemen. 

We  made  Gompiegne  as  the  sun  was  going 
down:  a  fine  profile  of  a  town  above  the  river. 
Over  the  bridge  a  regiment  was  parading  to  the 
drum.  People  loitered  on  the  quay,  some  fish- 
ing, some  looking  idly  at  the  stream.  And  as 
the  two  boats  shot  in  along  the  water,  we  could 
see  them  pointing  them  out  and  speaking  one 
to  another.  We  landed  at  a  floating  lavatory, 
where  the  washerwomen  were  still  beating  the 
clothes. 

119 


AT  COMPIEGNE 

WE    put    up   at  a  big,  bustling   hotel    in 
Compiegne,  where  nobody  observed  our 
presence. 

Reservery  and  general  militarismus  (as  the 
Germans  call  it)  were  rampant.  A  camp  of  coni- 
cal white  tents  without  the  town  looked  like  a 
leaf  out  of  a  picture  Bible ;  sword-belts  decorated 
the  walls  of  the  cafes,  and  the  streets  kept  sound- 
ing all  day  long  with  military  music.  It  was  not 
possible  to  be  an  Englishman  and  avoid  a  feeling 
of  elation;  for  the  men  who  followed  the  drums 
were  small  and  walked  shabbily.  Each  man  in- 
clined at  his  own  angle,  and  jolted  to  his  own 
convenience  as  he  went.  There  was  nothing  of 
the  superb  gait  with  which  a  regiment  of  tall  High- 
landers moves  behind  its  music,  solemn  and  in- 
evitable, like  a  natural  phenomenon.  Who,  that 
has  seen 'it,  can  forget  the  drum-major  pacing 
in  front,  the  drummers'  tiger-skins,  the  pipers' 
swinging  plaids,  the  strange,  elastic  rhythm  of 
the  whole  regiment  footing  it  in  time,  and  the 
bang  of  the  drum  when  the  brasses  cease,  and 

120 


the  shrill  pipes  taking  up  the  martial  story  in 
their  place? 

A  girl  at  school  in  France  began  to  describe 
one  of  our  regiments  on  parade  to  her  French 
school-mates,  and  as  she  went  on,  she  told  me 
the  recollection  grew  so  vivid,  she  became  so 
proud  to  be  the  countrywoman  of  such  soldiers, 
and  so  sorry  to  be  in  another  country,  that  her 
voice  failed  her  and  she  burst  into  tears.  I  have 
never  forgotten  that  girl,  and  I  think  she  very 
nearly  deserves  a  statue.  To  call  her  a  young 
lady,  with  all  its  niminy  associations,  would  be 
to  offer  her  an  insult.  She  may  rest  assured  of 
one  thing,  although  she  never  should  marry  a 
heroic  general,  never  see  any  great  or  immediate 
result  of  her  life,  she  will  not  have  lived  in  vain 
for  her  native  land. 

But  though  French  soldiers  show  to  ill- 
advantage  on  parade,  on  the  march  they  are  gay, 
alert,  and  willing,  like  a  troop  of  fox-hunters.  I 
remember  once  seeing  a  company  pass  through 
the  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  on  the  Chailly  road, 
between  the  Bas  Breau  and  the  Reine  Blanche. 
One  fellow  walked  a  little  before  the  rest,  and 
sang  a  loud,  audacious  marching  song.  The 
rest  bestirred  their  feet,  and  even  swung  their 
muskets  in  time.  A  young  officer  on  horseback 
had  hard  ado  to  keep  his  countenance  at  the 
words.  You  never  saw  anything  so  cheerful  and 
spontaneous  as  their  gait;  schoolboys  do  not 
look  more  eagerly  at  hare  and  hounds;  and  you 

121 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

would  have  thought  it  impossible  to  tire  such 
willing  marchers.  - 

My  great  delight  in  Compiegne  was  the  town 
hall.  I  doted  upon  the  town  hall.  It  is  a  monu- 
ment of  Gothic  insecurity,  all  turreted,  and  gar- 
goyled,  and  slashed,  and  bedizened  with  half 
a  score  of  architectural  fancies.  Some  of  the 
niches  are  gilt  and  painted ;  and  in  a  great  square 
panel  in  the  centre,  in  black  relief  on  a  gilt 
ground,  Louis  XII.  rides  upon  a  pacing  horse, 
with  hand  on  hip,  and  head  thrown  back.  There 
is  royal  arrogance  in  every  line  of  him,  the  stir- 
rupped  foot  projects  insolently  from  the  frame; 
the  eye  is  hard  and  proud;  the  very  horse  seems 
to  be  treading  with  gratification  over  prostrate 
serfs,  and  to  have  the  breath  of  the  trumpet  in 
his  nostrils.  So  rides  forever,  on  the  front  of 
the  town  hall,  the  good  king  Louis  XII.,  the 
father  of  his  people. 

Over  the  king's  head,  in  the  tall  centre  turret, 
appears  the  dial  of  a  clock ;  and  high  above  that, 
three  little  mechanical  figures,  each  one  with  a 
hammer  in  his  hand,  whose  business  it  is  to  chime 
out  the  hours,  and  halves,  and  quarters  for  the 
burgesses  of  Compiegne.  The  centre  figure  has 
a  gilt  breast-plate ;  the  two  others  wear  gilt  trunk- 
hose;  and  they  all  three  have  elegant,  flapping 
hats  like  cavaliers.  As  the  quarter  approaches, 
they  turn  their  heads  and  look  knowingly  one 
to  the  other;  and  then,  kling  go  the  three  ham- 
mers on  three  little  bells  below.  The  hour  fol- 

122 


AT  COMPIEGNE 

lows,  deep  and  sonorous,  from  the  interior  of  the 
tower;  and  the  gilded  gentlemen  rest  from  their 
labours  with  contentment. 

I  had  a  great  deal  of  healthy  pleasure  from 
their  manoeuvres,  and  took  good  care  to  miss  as 
few  performances  as  possible;  and  I  found  that 
even  the  Cigarette,  while  he  pretended  to  despise 
my  enthusiasm,  was  more  or  less  a  devotee  him- 
self. There  is  something  highly  absurd  in  the 
exposition  of  such  toys  to  the  outrages  of  winter 
on  a  housetop.  They  would  be  more  in  keeping 
in  a  glass  case  before  a  Nurnberg  clock.  Above 
all,  at  night,  when  the  children  are  abed,  and 
even  grown  people  are  snoring  under  quilts,  does 
it  not  seem  impertinent  to  leave  these  ginger- 
bread figures  winking  and  tinkling  to  the  stars 
and  the  rolling  moon?  The  gargoyles  may  fitly 
enough  twist  their  ape-like  heads;  fitly  enough 
may  the  potentate  bestride  his  charger,  like  a 
centurion  in  an  old  German  print  of  the  Via 
Dolorosa;  but  the  toys  should  be  put  away  in  a 
box  among  some  cotton,  until  the  sun  rises,  and 
the  children  are  abroad  again  to  be  amused. 

In  Compiegne  post-office  a  great  packet  of 
letters  awaited  us;  and  the  authorities  were,  for 
this  occasion  only,  so  polite  as  to  hand  them  over 
upon  application. 

In  some  way,  our  journey  may  be  said  to  end 
with  this  letter-bag  at  Compiegne.  The  spell 
was  broken.  We  had  partly  come  home  from 
that  moment. 

123 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

No  one  should  have  any  correspondence  on  a 
journey;  it  is  bad  enough  to  have  to  write;  but 
the  receipt  of  letters  is  the  death  of  all  holiday 
feeling. 

"  Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go."  I  wish 
to  take  a  dive  among  new  conditions  for  a  while, 
as  into  another  element.  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  my  friends  or  my  affections  for  the  time; 
when  I  came  away,  I  left  my  heart  at  home  in  a 
desk,  or  sent  it  forward  with  portmanteau  to 
await  me  at  my  destination.  After  my  journey 
is  over,  I  shall  not  fail  to  read  your  admirable 
letters  with  the  attention  they  deserve.  But  I 
have  paid  all  this  money,  look  you,  and  paddled 
all  these  strokes,  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  be 
abroad;  and  yet  you  keep  me  at  home  with  your 
perpetual  communications.  You  tug  the  string, 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  a  tethered  bird.  You  pur- 
sue me  all  over  Europe  with  the  little  vexations 
that  I  came  away  to  avoid.  There  is  no  dis- 
charge in  the  war  of  life,  I  am  well  aware;  but 
shall  there  not  be  so  much  as  a  week's  furlough? 

We  were  up  by  six,  the  day  we  were  to  leave. 
They  had  taken  so  little  note  of  us  that  I  hardly 
thought  they  would  have  condescended  on  a  bill. 
But  they  did,  with  some  smart  particulars,  too; 
and  we  paid  in  a  civilised  manner  to  an  unin- 
terested clerk,  and  went  out  of  that  hotel,  with 
the  india-rubber  bags,  unremarked.  No  one 
cared  to  know  about  us.  It  is  not  possible  to  rise 
before  a  village;  but  Compiegne  was  so  grown  a 

124 


AT  COMPIEGNE 

town  that  it  took  its  ease  in  the  morning;  and  we 
were  up  and  away  while  it  was  still  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers.  The  streets  were  left  to 
people  washing  door-steps;  nobody  was  in  full 
dress  but  the  cavaliers  upon  the  town  hall;  they 
were  all  washed  with  dew,  spruce  in  their  gilding, 
and  full  of  intelligence  and  a  sense  of  profes- 
sional responsibility.  Kling  went  they  on  the 
bells  for  the  half-past  six,  as  we  went  by.  I  took 
it  kind  of  them  to  make  me  this  parting  compli- 
ment; they  never  were  in  better  form,  not  even 
at  noon  upon  a  Sunday. 

There  was  no  one  to  see  us  off  but  the  early 
washerwomen, — early  and  late — who  were  al- 
ready beating  the  linen  in  their  floating  lavatory 
on  the  river.  They  were  very  merry  and  matu- 
tinal in  their  ways;  plunged  their  arms  boldly  in, 
and  seemed  not  to  feel  the  shock.  It  would  be 
dispiriting  to  me,  this  early  beginning  and  first 
cold  dabble  of  a  most  dispiriting  day's  work. 
But  I  believe  they  would  have  been  as  unwilling 
to  change  days  with  us  as  we  could  be  to  change 
with  them.  They  crowded  to  the  door  to 
watch  us  paddle  away  into  the  thin  sunny  mists 
upon  the  river;  and  shouted  heartily  after  us  till 
we  were  through  the  bridge. 


125 


CHANGED  TIMES 

r  I  ^HERE  is  a  sense  in  which  those  mists  never 
-I-  rose  from  off  our  journey;  and  from  that 
time  forth  they  lie  very  densely  in  my  note-book. 
As  long  as  the  Oise  was  a  small,  rural  river  it 
took  us  near  by  people's  doors,  and  we  could  hold 
a  conversation  with  natives  in  the  riparian  fields. 
But  now  that  it  had  grown  so  wide,  the  life 
along  shore  passed  us  by  at  a  distance.  It  was 
the  same  difference  as  between  a  great  public 
highway  and  a  country  by-path  that  wanders  in 
and  out  of  cottage  gardens.  We  now  lay  in 
towns,  where  nobody  troubled  us  with  questions; 
we  had  floated  into  civilised  life,  where  people 
pass  without  salutation.  In  sparsely  inhabited 
places  we  make  all  we  can  of  each  encounter; 
but  when  it  comes  to  a  city,  we  keep  to  ourselves, 
and  never  speak  unless  we  have  trodden  on  a 
man's  toes.  In  these  waters  we  were  no  longer 
strange  birds,  and  nobody  supposed  we  had 
travelled  farther  than  from  the  last  town.  I 
remember,  when  we  came  into  L'Isle  Adam,  for 
instance;  how  we  met  dozens  of  pleasure-boats 
outing  it  for  the  afternoon,  and  there  was  noth- 

126 


CHANGED  TIMES 

ing  to  distinguish  the  true  voyager  from  the 
amateur,  except,  perhaps,  the  filthy  condition  of 
my  sail.  The  company  in  one  boat  actually 
thought  they  recognised  me  for  a  neighbour. 
Was  there  ever  anything  more  wounding?  All 
the  romance  had  come  down  to  that.  Now,  on 
the  upper  Oise,  where  nothing  sailed,  as  a  general 
thing,  but  fish,  a  pair  of  canoeists  could  not  be 
thus  vulgarly  explained  away;  we  were  strange 
and  picturesque  intruders;  and  out  of  people's 
wonder  sprang  a  sort  of  light  and  passing  inti- 
macy all  along  our  route.  There  is  nothing  but  tit 
for  tat  in  this  world,  though  sometimes  it  be  a 
little  difficult  to  trace:  for  the  scores  are  older 
than  we  ourselves,  and  there  has  never  yet  been 
a  settling-day  since  things  were.  You  get  enter- 
tainment pretty  much  in  proportion  as  you  give. 
As  long  as  we  were  a  sort  of  odd  wanderers,  to 
be  stared  at  and  followed  like  a  quack  doctor  or 
a  caravan,  we  had  no  want  of  amusement  in  re- 
turn; but  as  soon  as  we  sank  into  commonplace 
ourselves,  all  whom  we  met  were  similarly  dis- 
enchanted. And  here  is  one  reason  of  a  dozen 
why  the  world  is  dull  to  dull  persons. 

In  our  earlier  adventures  there  was  generally 
something  to  do,  and  that  quickened  us.  Even 
the  showers  of  rain  had  a  revivifying  effect,  and 
shook  up  the  brain  from  torpor.  But  now,  when 
the  river  no  longer  ran  in  a  proper  sense,  only 
glided  seaward  with  an  even,  outright,  but  im- 
perceptible speed,  and  when  the  sky  smiled  upon 

127 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

us  day  after  day  without  variety,  we  began  to 
slip  into  that  golden  doze  of  the  mind  which 
follows  upon  much  exercise  in  the  open  air.  I 
have  stupefied  myself  in  this  way  more  than 
once:  indeed,  I  dearly  love  the  feeling;  but  I 
never  had  it  to  the  same  degree  as  when  paddling 
down  the  Oise.  It  was  the  apotheosis  of 
stupidity. 

We  ceased  reading  entirely.  Sometimes,  when 
I  found  a  new  paper,  I  took  a  particular  pleasure 
in  reading  a  single  number  of  the  current  novel ; 
but  I  never  could  bear  more  than  three  instal- 
ments; and  even  the  second  was  a  disappoint- 
ment. As  soon  as  the  tale  became  in  any  way 
perspicuous,  it  lost  all  merit  in  my  eyes;  only  a 
single  scene,  or,  as  is  the  way  with  these  feuille- 
tons,  half  a  scene,  without  antecedent  or  conse- 
quence, like  a  piece  of  a  dream,  had  the  knack 
of  fixing  my  interest.  The  less  I  saw  of  the  novel, 
the  better  I  liked  it:  a  pregnant  reflection.  But 
for  the  most  part,  as  I  said,  we  neither  of  us  read 
anything  in  the  world,  and  employed  the  very 
little  while  we  were  awake  between  bed  and 
dinner  in  poring  upon  maps.  I  have  always 
been  fond  of  maps,  and  can  voyage  in  an  atlas 
with  the  greatest  enjoyment.  The  names  of 
places  are  singularly  inviting;  the  contour  of 
coasts  and  rivers  is  enthralling  to  the  eye;  and 
to  hit  in  a  map  upon  some  place  you  have 
heard  of  before  makes  history  a  new  possession. 
But  we  thumbed  our  charts,  on  those  evenings, 

128 


CHANGED  TIMES 

with  the  blankest  unconcern.  We  cared  not 
a  fraction  for  this  place  or  that.  We  stared  at 
the  sheet  as  children  listen  to  their  rattle,  and 
read  the  names  of  towns  or  villages  to  forget 
them  again  at  once.  We  had  no  romance  in  the 
matter;  there  was  nobody  so  fancy-free.  If  you 
had  taken  the  maps  away  while  we  were  study- 
ing them  most  intently,  it  is  a  fair  bet  whether 
we  might  not  have  continued  to  study  the  table 
with  the  same  delight. 

About  one  thing  we  were  mightily  taken  up, 
and  that  was  eating.  I  think  I  made  a  god  of 
my  belly.  I  remember  dwelling  in  imagination 
upon  this  or  that  dish  till  my  mouth  watered; 
and  long  before  we  got  in  for  the  night  my  ap- 
petite was  a  clamant,  instant  annoyance.  Some- 
times we  paddled  alongside  for  a  while  and 
whetted  each  other  with  gastronomical  fancies 
as  we  went.  Cake  and  sherry,  a  homely  refec- 
tion, but  not  within  reach  upon  the  Oise,  trotted 
through  my  head  for  many  a  mile;  and  once,  as 
we  were  approaching  Verberie,  the  Cigarette 
brought  my  heart  into  my  mouth  by  the  sug- 
gestion of  oyster-patties  and  Sauterne. 

I  suppose  none  of  us  recognise  the  great  part 
that  is  played  in  life  by  eating  and  drinking. 
The  appetite  is  so  imperious  that  we  can  stomach 
the  least  interesting  viands,  and  pass  off  a  dinner 
hour  thankfully  enough  on  bread  and  water; 
just  as  there  are  men  who  must  read  something, 
if  it  were  only  Bradshaw's  Guide.  But  there  is 

129 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

a  romance  about  the  matter,  after  all.  Prob- 
ably the  table  has  more  devotees  than  love ;  and 
I  am  sure  that  food  is  much  more  generally  en- 
tertaining than  scenery.  Do  you  give  in,  as 
Walt  Whitman  would  say,  that  you  are  any  the 
less  immortal  for  that?  The  true  materialism 
is  to  be  ashamed  of  what  we  are.  To  detect 
the  flavour  of  an  olive  is  no  less  a  piece  of  human 
perfection  than  to  find  beauty  in  the  colours  of 
the  sunset. 

Canoeing  was  easy  work.  To  dip  the  paddle 
at  the  proper  inclination,  now  right,  now  left ;  to 
keep  the  head  down  stream;  to  empty  the  little 
pool  that  gathered  in  the  lap  of  the  apron;  to 
screw  up  the  eyes  against  the  glittering  sparkles 
of  sun  upon  the  water ;  or  now  and  again  to  pass 
below  the  whistling  tow-rope  of  the  Deo  Gratias 
of  Conde,  or  the  Four  Sons  of  Aymon — there  was 
not  much  art  in  that,  certainly  silly  muscles  man- 
aged it  between  sleep  and  waking;  and  mean- 
while the  brain  had  a  whole  holiday,  and  went 
to  sleep.  We  took  in  at  a  glance  the  larger 
features  of  the  scene,  and  beheld,  with  half  an 
eye,  bloused  fishers  and  dabbling  washerwomen 
on  the  bank.  Now  and  again  we  might  be  half 
wakened  by  some  church  spire,  by  a  leaping 
fish,  or  by  a  trail  of  river  grass  that  clung  about 
the  paddle  and  had  to  be  plucked  off  and  thrown 
away.  But  these  luminous  intervals  were  only 
partially  luminous.  A  little  more  of  us  was 
called  into  action,  but  never  the  whole.  The 

130 


CHANGED  TIMES 

central  bureau  of  nerves,  what  in  some  moods 
we  Call  Ourselves,  enjoyed  its  holiday  without 
disturbance,  like  a  Government  Office.  The 
great  wheels  of  intelligence  turned  idly  in  the 
head,  like  fly-wheels,  grinding  no  grist.  I  have 
gone  on  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  counting  my 
strokes  and  forgetting  the  hundreds.  I  flatter 
myself  the  beasts  that  perish  could  not  underbid 
that,  as  a  low  form  of  consciousness.  And  what 
a  pleasure  it  was!  What  a  hearty,  tolerant 
temper  did  it  bring  about!  There  is  nothing 
captious  about  a  man  who  has  attained  to  this, 
the  one  possible  apotheosis  in  life,  the  Apothe- 
osis of  Stupidity ;  and  he  begins  to  feel  dignified 
and  longaevous  like  a  tree. 

There  was  one  odd  piece  of  practical  meta- 
physics which  accompanied  what  I  may  call  the 
depth,  if  I  must  not  call  it  the  intensity,  of  my 
abstraction.  What  philosophers  call  me  and 
not  me,  ego  and  non  ego,  pre-occupied  me  whether 
I  would  or  no.  There  was  less  me  and  more  not 
me  than  I  was  accustomed  to  expect.  I  looked 
on  upon  somebody  else,  who  managed  the  pad- 
dling; I  was  aware  of  somebody  else's  feet  against 
the  stretcher;  my  own  body  seemed  to  have  no 
more  intimate  relation  to  me  than  the  canoe, 
or  the  river,  or  the  river  banks.  Nor  this  alone: 
something  inside  my  mind,  a  part  of  my  brain, 
a  province  of  my  proper  being,  had  thrown  off 
allegiance  and  set  up  for  itself,  or  perhaps  for 
the  somebody  else  who  did  the  paddling.  I  had 

131 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

dwindled  into  quite  a  little  thing  in  a  corner 
of  myself.  I  was  isolated  in  my  own  skull. 
Thoughts  presented  themselves  unbidden;  they 
were  not  my  thoughts,  they  were  plainly  some 
one  else's;  and  I  considered  them  like  a  part  of 
the  landscape.  I  take  it,  in  short,  that  I  was 
about  as  near  Nirvana  as  would  be  convenient 
in  practical  life;  and,  if  this  be  so,  I  make  the 
Buddhists  my  sincere  compliments;  't  is  an 
agreeable  state,  not  very  consistent  with  mental 
brilliancy,  not  exactly  profitable  in  a  money 
point  of  view,  but  very  calm,  golden,  and  incuri- 
ous, and  one  that  sets  a  man  superior  to  alarms. 
It  may  be  best  figured  by  supposing  yourself  to 
get  dead  drunk,  and  yet  keep  sober  to  enjoy  it. 
I  have  a  notion  that  open-air  labourers  must  spend 
a  large  portion  of  their  days  in  this  ecstatic 
stupor,  which  explains  their  high  composure  and 
endurance.  A  pity  to  go  to  the  expense  of 
laudanum  when  here  is  a  better  paradise  for 
nothing ! 

This  frame  of  mind  was  the  great  exploit  of 
our  voyage,  take  it  all  in  all.  It  was  the  farthest 
piece  of  travel  accomplished.  Indeed,  it  lies 
so  far  from  beaten  paths  of  language  that  I  de- 
spair of  getting  the  reader  into  sympathy  with 
the  smiling,  complacent  idiocy  of  my  condition ; 
when  ideas  came  and  went  like  motes  in  a  sun- 
beam; when  trees  and  church  spires  along  the 
bank  surged  up  from  time  to  time  into  my 
notice,  like  solid  objects  through  a  rolling  cloud- 

132 


CHANGED  TIMES 

land;  when  the  rhythmical  swish  of  boat  and 
paddle  in  the  water  became  a  cradle-song  to  lull 
my  thoughts  asleep ;  when  a  piece  of  mud  on  the 
deck  was  sometimes  an  intolerable  eyesore,  and 
sometimes  quite  a  companion  for  me,  and  the 
object  of  pleased  consideration;  and  all  the  time, 
with  the  river  running  and  the  shores  changing 
upon  either  hand,  I  kept  counting  my  strokes 
and  forgetting  the  hundreds,  the  happiest  ani- 
mal in  France. 


133 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

CHURCH    INTERIORS 

WE  made  our  first  stage  below  Compiegne 
to  Pont  Sainte  Maxence.  I  was  abroad 
a  little  after  six  the  next  morning.  The  air  was 
biting  and  smelt  of  frost.  In  an  open  place  a 
score  of  women  wrangled  together  over  the  day's 
market;  and  the  noise  of  their  negotiation 
sounded  thin  and  querulous,  like  that  of  spar- 
rows on  a  winter's  morning.  The  rare  passen- 
gers blew  into  their  hands,  and  shuffled  in  their 
wooden  shoes  to  set  the  blood  agog.  The  streets 
were  full  of  icy  shadow,  although  the  chimneys 
were  smoking  overhead  in  golden  sunshine.  If 
you  wake  early  enough  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
you  may  get  up  in  December  to  break  your  fast 
in  June. 

I  found  my  way  to  the  church,  for  there  is 
always  something  to  see  about  a  church,  whether 
living  worshippers  or  dead  men's  tombs;  you 
find  there  the  deadliest  earnest,  and  the  hollow- 
est  deceit;  and  even  where  it  is  not  a  piece  of 
history,  it  will  be  certain  to  leak  out  some  con- 
temporary gossip.  It  was  scarcely  so  cold  in 

134 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

the  church  as  it  was  without,  but  it  looked  colder. 
The  white  nave  was  positively  arctic  to  the  eye; 
and  the  tawdriness  of  a  continental  altar  looked 
more  forlorn  than  usual  in  the  solitude  and  the 
bleak  air.  Two  priests  sat  in  the  chancel  read- 
ing and  waiting  penitents;  and  out  in  the  nave 
one  very  old  woman  was  engaged  in  her  devo- 
tions. It  was  a  wonder  how  she  was  able  to  pass 
her  beads  when  healthy  young  people  were 
breathing  in  their  palms  and  slapping  their 
chest;  but  though  this  concerned  me,  I  was  yet 
more  dispirited  by  the  nature  of  her  exercises. 
She  went  from  chair  to  chair,  from  altar  to  altar, 
circumnavigating  the  church.  To  each  shrine 
she  dedicated  an  equal  number  of  beads  and  an 
equal  length  of  time.  Like  a  prudent  capitalist 
with  a  somewhat  cynical  view  of  the  commercial 
prospect,  she  desired  to  place  her  supplications 
in  a  great  variety  of  heavenly  securities.  She 
would  risk  nothing  on  the  credit  of  any  single 
intercessor.  Out  of  the  whole  company  of 
saints  and  angels,  not  one  but  was  to  suppose 
himself  her  champion  elect  against  the  Great 
Assizes!  I  could  only  think  of  it  as  a  dull, 
transparent  jugglery,  based  upon  unconscious 
unbelief. 

She  was  as  dead  an  old  woman  as  ever  I  saw; 
no  more  than  bone  and  parchment,  curiously 
put  together.  Her  eyes,  with  which  she  inter- 
rogated mine,  were  vacant  of  sense.  It  depends 
on  what  you  call  seeing,  whether  you  might  not 

135 


AN   INLAND  VOYAGE 

call  her  blind.  Perhaps  she  had  known  love: 
perhaps  borne  children,  suckled  them,  and 
given  them  pet  names.  But  now  that  was  all 
gone  by,  and  had  left  her  neither  happier  nor 
wiser;  and  the  best  she  could  do  with  her  morn- 
ings was  to  come  up  here  into  the  cold  church 
and  juggle  for  a  slice  of  heaven.  It  was  not 
without  a  gulp  that  I  escaped  into  the  streets 
and  the  keen  morning  air.  Morning?  why,  how 
tired  of  it  she  would  be  before  night!  and  if  she 
did  not  sleep,  how  then?  It  is  fortunate  that 
not  many  of  us  are  brought  up  publicly  to  justify 
our  lives  at  the  bar  of  threescore  years  and  ten; 
fortunate  that  such  a  number  are  knocked  op- 
portunely on  the  head  in  what  they  call  the  flower 
of  their  years,  and  go  away  to  suffer  for  their 
follies  in  private  somewhere  else.  Otherwise, 
between  sick  children  and  discontented  old  folk, 
we  might  be  put  out  of  all  conceit  of  life. 

I  had  need  of  all  my  cerebral  hygiene  during 
that  day's  paddle:  the  old  devotee  stuck  in  my 
throat  sorely.  But  I  was  soon  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  stupidity;  and  knew  nothing  but  that 
somebody  was  paddling  a  canoe,  while  I  was 
counting  his  strokes  and  forgetting  the  hundreds. 
I  used  sometimes  to  be  afraid  I  should  remember 
the  hundreds;  which  would  have  made  a  toil  of 
a  pleasure;  but  the  terror  was  chimerical,  they 
went  out  of  my  mind  by  enchantment,  and  I 
knew  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon  about 
my  only  occupation. 

136 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

At  Creil,  where  we  stopped  to  lunch,  we  left 
the  canoes  in  another  floating  lavatory,  which, 
as  it  was  high  noon,  was  packed  with  washer- 
women, red-handed  and  loud-voiced;  and  they 
and  their  broad  jokes  are  about  all  I  remember 
of  the  place.  I  could  look  up  my  history  books, 
if  you  were  very  anxious,  and  tell  you  a  date  or 
two;  for  it  figured  rather  largely  in  the  English 
wars.  But  I  prefer  to  mention  a  girls'  boarding- 
school,  which  had  an  interest  for  us  because  it 
was  a  girls'  boarding-school,  and  because  we  im- 
agined we  had  rather  an  interest  for  it.  At  least — 
there  were  the  girls  about  the  garden;  and  here 
were  we  on  the  river ;  and  there  was  more  than  one 
handkerchief  waved  as  we  went  by.  It  caused 
quite  a  stir  in  my  heart;  and  yet  how  we  should 
have  wearied  and  despised  each  other,  these  girls 
and  I,  if  we  had  been  introduced  at  a  croquet- 
party  !  But  this  is  a  fashion  I  love :  to  kiss  the 
hand  or  wave  a  handkerchief  to  people  I  shall 
never  see  again,  to  play  with  possibility,  and 
knock  in  a  peg  for  fancy  to  hang  upon.  It  gives 
the  traveller  a  jog,  reminds  him  that  he  is  not  a 
traveller  everywhere,  and  that  his  journey  is  no 
more  than  a  siesta  by  the  way  on  the  real  march 
of  life. 

The  church  at  Creil  was  a  nondescript  place 
in  the  inside,  splashed  with  gaudy  lights  from  the 
windows,  and  picked  out  with  medallions  of  the 
Dolorous  Way.  But  there  was  one  oddity,  in 
the  way  of  an  ex  voto,  which  pleased  me  hugely : 

137 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

a  faithful  model  of  a  canal  boat,  swung  from  the 
vault,  with  a  written  aspiration  that  God  should 
conduct  the  Saint  Nicolas  of  Creil  to  a  good 
haven.  The  thing  was  neatly  executed,  and 
would  have  made  the  delight  of  a  party  of 
boys  on  the  waterside.  But  what  tickled  me 
was  the  gravity  of  the  peril  to  be  conjured.  You 
might  hang  up  the  model  of  a  sea-going  ship,  and 
welcome:  one  that  is  to  plough  a  furrow  round 
the  world,  and  visit  the  tropic  or  the  frosty  poles, 
runs  dangers  that  are  well  worth  a  candle  and  a 
mass.  But  the  Saint  Nicolas  of  Creil,  which 
was  to  be  tugged  for  some  ten  years  by  patient 
draught-horses,  in  a  weedy  canal,  with  the 
poplars  chattering  overhead,  and  the  skipper 
whistling  at  the  tiller;  which  was  to  do  all  its 
errands  in  green  inland  places,  and  never  got  out 
of  sight  of  a  village  belfry  in  all  its  cruising ;  why, 
you  would  have  thought  if  anything  could  be 
done  without  the  intervention  of  Providence,  it 
would  be  that!  But  perhaps  the  skipper  was  a 
humourist:  or  perhaps  a  prophet,  reminding 
people  of  the  seriousness  of  life  by  this  prepos- 
terous token. 

At  Creil,  as  at  Noyon,  Saint  Joseph  seemed  a 
favourite  saint  on  the  score  of  punctuality .  Day 
and  hour  can  be  specified;  and  grateful  people 
do  not  fail  to  specify  them  on  a  votive  tablet, 
when  prayers  have  been  punctually  and  neatly 
answered.  Whenever  time  is  a  consideration, 
Saint  Joseph  is  the  proper  intermediary.  I  took 

138 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

a  sort  of  pleasure  in  observing  the  vogue  he  had 
in  France,  for  the  good  man  plays  a  very  small 
part  in  my  religion  at  home.  Yet  I  could  not 
help  fearing  that,  where  the  saint  is  so  much 
commended  for  exactitude,  he  will  be  expected 
to  be  very  grateful  for  his  tablet. 

This  is  foolishness  to  us  Protestants;  and  not 
of  great  importance  anyway.  Whether  people's 
gratitude  for  the  good  gifts  that  come  to  them 
be  wisely  conceived  or  dutifully  expressed  is  a 
secondary  matter,  after  all,  so  long  as  they  feel 
gratitude.  The  true  ignorance  is  when  a  man 
does  not  know  that  he  has  received  a  good  gift, 
or  begins  to  imagine  that  he  has  got  it  for  him- 
self. The  self-made  man  is  the  funniest  wind- 
bag after  all!  There  is  a  marked  difference  be- 
tween decreeing  light  in  chaos,  and  lighting  the 
gas  in  a  metropolitan  back-parlour  with  a  box 
of  patent  matches;  and,  do  what  we  will,  there 
is  always  something  made  to  our  hand,  if  it  were 
only  our  fingers. 

But  there  was  something  worse  than  foolish- 
ness placarded  in  Creil  Church.  The  Associa- 
tion of  the  Living  Rosary  (of  which  I  had  never 
previously  heard)  is  responsible  for  that.  This 
association  was  founded,  according  to  the  printed 
advertisement,  by  a  brief  of  Pope  Gregory  Six- 
teenth, on  the  17th  of  January,  1832:  according 
to  a  coloured  bas-relief,  it  seems  to  have  been 
founded,  some  time  or  other,  by  the  Virgin  giv- 
ing one  rosary  to  Saint  Dominic,  and  the  Infant 

139 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

Saviour  giving  another  to  Saint  Catharine  of 
Siena.  Pope  Gregory  is  not  so  imposing,  but 
he  is  nearer  hand.  I  could  not  distinctly  make 
out  whether  the  association  was  entirely  devo- 
tional, or  had  an  eye  to  good  works;  at  least  it  is 
highly  organised :  the  names  of  fourteen  matrons 
and  misses  were  filled  in  for  each  week  of  the 
month  as  associates,  with  one  other,  generally  a 
married  woman,  at  the  top  for  zelatrice,  the 
choragus  of  the  band.  Indulgences,  plenary-  and 
partial,  follow  on  the  performance  of  the  duties 
of  the  association.  ''The  partial  indulgences 
are  attached  to  the  recitation  of  the  rosary." 
On  "the  recitation  of  the  required  dizaine,"  a 
partial  indulgence  promptly  follows.  \\Tien 
people  serve  the  kingdom  of  heaven  with  a  pass- 
book in  their  hands,  I  should  always  be  afraid 
lest  they  should  carry  the  same  commercial  spirit 
into  their  dealings  with  their  fellow-men,  which 
would  make  a  sad  and  sordid  business  of  this 
life. 

There  is  one  more  article,  however,  of  happier 
import.  "Ah1  these  indulgences,"  it  appeared, 
"are  applicable  to  souls  in  purgatory."  For 
God's  sake,  ye  ladies  of  Creil,  apply  them  all  to 
the  souls  in  purgatory  without  delay!  Burns 
would  take  no  hire  for  his  last  songs,  preferring 
to  serve  his  country  out  of  unmixed  love.  Sup- 
pose you  were  to  imitate  the  exciseman,  mes- 
dames,  and  even  if  the  souls  in  purgatory  were 
not  greatly  bettered,  some  souls  in  Creil  upon 

140 


DOWN  THE  OISE 

the  Oise  would  find  themselves  none  the  worse 
either  here  or  hereafter. 

I  cannot  help  wondering,  as  I  transcribe  these 
notes,  whether  a  Protestant  born  and  bred  is  in 
a  fit  state  to  understand  these  signs,  and  do 
them  what  justice  they  deserve;  and  I  cannot 
help  answering  that  he  is  not.  They  cannot 
look  so  merely  ugly  and  mean  to  the  faithful  as 
they  do  to  me.  I  see  that  as  clearly  as  a  prop- 
osition in  Euclid.  For  these  believers  are 
neither  weak  nor  wicked.  They  can  put  up 
their  tablet  commending  Saint  Joseph  for  his 
despatch  as  if  he  were  still  a  village  carpenter; 
they  can  "recite  the  required  dizaine,"  and 
metaphorically  pocket  the  indulgence  as  if  they 
had  done  a  job  for  heaven;  and  then  they  can 
go  out  and  look  down  unabashed  upon  this  won- 
derful river  flowing  by,  and  up  without  con- 
fusion at  the  pin-point  stars,  which  are  them- 
selves great  worlds  full  of  flowing  rivers  greater 
than  the  Oise.  I  see  it  as  plainly,  I  say,  as  a 
proposition  in  Euclid,  that  my  Protestant  mind 
has  missed  the  point,  and  that  there  goes  with 
these  deformities  some  higher  and  more  religi- 
ous spirit  than  I  dream. 

I  wonder  if  other  people  would  make  the  same 
allowances  for  me?  Like  the  ladies  of  Creil, 
having  recited  my  rosary  of  toleration,  I  look 
for  my  indulgence  on  the  spot. 


141 


PRECY  AND  THE 
MARIONETTES 

WE  made  Precy  about  sundown.  The  plain 
is  rich  with  tufts  of  poplar.  In  a  wide, 
luminous  curve  the  Oise  lay  under  the  hill- 
side. A  faint  mist  began  to  rise  and  confound 
the  different  distances  together.  There  was  not 
a  sound  audible  but  that  of  the  sheep-bells  in 
some  meadows  by  the  river,  and  the  creaking  of 
a  cart  down  the  long  road  that  descends  the  hill. 
The  villas  in  their  gardens,  the  shops  along  the 
street,  all  seemed  to  have  been  deserted  the  day 
before;  and  I  felt  inclined  to  walk  discreetly  as 
one  feels  in  a  silent  forest.  All  of  a  sudden  we 
came  round  a  corner,  and  there,  in  a  little  green 
round  the  church,  was  a  bevy  of  girls  in  Parisian 
costumes  playing  croquet.  Their  laughter  and 
the  hollow  sound  of  ball  and  mallet  made  a 
cheery  stir  in  the  neighbourhood;  and  the  look 
of  these  slim  figures,  all  corseted  and  ribboned, 
produced  an  answerable  disturbance  in  our 
hearts.  We  were  within  sniff  of  Paris,  it  seemed. 
And  here  were  females  of  our  own  species  play- 
ing croquet,  just  as  if  Precy  had  been  a  place  in 

142 


PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES 

real  life  instead  of  a  stage  in  the  fairyland  of 
travel.  For,  to  be  frank,  the  peasant  woman 
is  scarcely  to  be  counted  as  a  woman  at  all,  and 
after  having  passed  by  such  a  succession  of 
people  in  petticoats  digging,  and  hoeing,  and 
making  dinner,  this  company  of  coquettes  under 
arms  made  quite  a  surprising  feature  in  the  land- 
scape, and  convinced  us  at  once  of  being  fallible 
males. 

The  inn  at  Precy  is  the  worst  inn  in  France. 
Not  even  in  Scotland  have  I  found  worse  fare. 
It  was  kept  by  a  brother  and  sister,  neither  of 
whom  was  out  of  their  teens.  The  sister,  so  to 
speak,  prepared  a  meal  for  us;  and  the  brother, 
who  had  been  tippling,  came  in  and  brought  with 
him  a  tipsy  butcher,  to  entertain  us  as  we  ate. 
We  found  pieces  of  loo-warm  pork  among  the 
salad,  and  pieces  of  unknown  yielding  substance 
in  the  ragout.  The  butcher  entertained  us  with 
pictures  of  Parisian  life,  with  which  he  professed 
himself  well  acquainted ;  the  brother  sitting  the 
while  on  the  edge  of  the  billiard  table,  toppling 
precariously,  and  sucking  the  stump  of  a  cigar. 
In  the  midst  of  these  diversions  bang  went  a 
drum  past  the  house,  and  a  hoarse  voice  began 
issuing  a  proclamation.  It  was  a  man  with 
marionettes  announcing  a  performance  for  that 
evening. 

He  had  set  up  his  caravan  and  lighted  his 
candles  on  another  part  of  the  girls'  croquet- 
green,  under  one  of  those  open  sheds  which  are 

143 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

so  common  in  France  to  shelter  markets ;  and  he 
and  his  wife,  by  the  time  we  strolled  up  there, 
were  trying  to  keep  order  with  the  audience. 

It  was  the  most  absurd  contention.  The 
show-people  had  set  out  a  certain  number  of 
benches;  and  all  who  sat  upon  them  were  to 
pay  a  couple  of  sous  for  the  accommodation. 
They  were  always  quite  full — a  bumper  house — 
as  long  as  nothing  was  going  forward;  but  let 
the  show-woman  appear  with  an  eye  to  a  collec- 
tion, and  at  the  first  rattle  of  the  tambourine  the 
audience  slipped  off  the  seats  and  stood  round  on 
the  outside,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets. 
It  certainly  would  have  tried  an  angel's  temper. 
The  showman  roared  from  the  proscenium;  he 
had  been  all  over  France,  and  nowhere,  nowhere, 
"not  even  on  the  borders  of  Germany,"  had  he 
met  with  such  misconduct.  Such  thieves,  and 
rogues,  and  rascals  as  he  called  them !  And  now 
and  again  the  wife  issued  on  another  round,  and 
added  her  shrill  quota  to  the  tirade.  I  remarked 
here,  as  elsewhere,  how  far  more  copious  is  the 
female  mind  in  the  material  of  insult.  The  au- 
dience laughed  in  high  good-humour  over  the 
man's  declamations;  but  they  bridled  and  cried 
aloud  under  the  woman's  pungent  sallies.  She 
picked  out  the  sore  points.  She  had  the  honour 
of  the  village  at  her  mercy.  Voices  answered 
her  angrily  out  of  the  crowd,  and  received  a 
smarting  retort  for  their  trouble.  A  couple  of 
old  ladies  beside  me,  who  had  duly  paid  for  their 

144 


PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES 

seats,  waxed  very  red  and  indignant,  and  dis- 
coursed to  each  other  audibly  about  the  impu- 
dence of  these  mountebanks ;  but  as  soon  as  the 
show-woman  caught  a  whisper  of  this  she  was 
down  upon  them  with  a  swoop;  if  mesdames 
could  persuade  their  neighbours  to  act  with 
common  honesty,  the  mountebanks,  she  assured 
them,  would  be  polite  enough;  mesdames  had 
probably  had  their  bowl  of  soup,  and,  perhaps, 
a  glass  of  wine  that  evening;  the  mountebanks, 
also,  had  a  taste  for  soup,  and  did  not  choose  to 
have  their  little  earnings  stolen  from  them  be- 
fore their  eyes.  Once,  things  came  as  far  as  a 
brief  personal  encounter  between  the  showman 
and  some  lads,  in  which  the  former  went  down 
as  readily  as  one  of  his  own  marionettes  to  a  peal 
of  jeering  laughter. 

I  was  a  good  deal  astonished  at  this  scene, 
because  I  am  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the 
ways  of  French  strollers,  more  or  less  artistic; 
and  have  always  found  them  singularly  pleasing. 
Any  stroller  must  be  dear  to  the  right-thinking 
heart;  if  it  were  only  as  a  living  protest  against 
offices  and  the  mercantile  spirit,  and  as  some- 
thing to  remind  us  that  life  is  not  by  necessity 
the  kind  of  thing  we  generally  make  it.  Even 
a  German  band,  if  you  see  it  leaving  town  in  the 
early  morning  for  a  campaign  in  country  places, 
among  trees  and  meadows,  has  a  romantic 
flavour  for  the  imagination.  There  is  nobody 
under  thirty  so  dead  but  his  heart  will  stir  a 

145 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

little  at  sight  of  a  gypsies'  camp.  "We  are  not 
cotton-spinners  all";  or,  at  least,  not  all  through. 
There  is  some  life  in  humanity  yet;  and  youth 
will  now  and  again  find  a  brave  word  to  say  in 
dispraise  of  riches,  and  throw  up  a  situation  to 
go  strolling  with  a  knapsack. 

An  Englishman  has  always  special  facilities 
for  intercourse  with  French  gymnasts;  for 
England  is  the  natural  home  of  gymnasts.  This 
or  that  fellow,  in  his  tights  and  spangles,  is  sure 
to  know  a  word  or  two  of  English,  to  have  drunk 
English  aff-n-aff,  and,  perhaps,  performed  in  an 
English  music  hall.  He  is  a  countryman  of  mine 
by  profession.  He  leaps  like  the  Belgian  boating- 
men  to  the  notion  that  I  must  be  an  athlete 
myself. 

But  the  gymnast  is  not  my  favourite;  he  has 
little  or  no  tincture  of  the  artist  in  his  composi- 
tion; his  soul  is  small  and  pedestrian,  for  the 
most  part,  since  his  profession  makes  no  call 
upon  it,  and  does  not  accustom  him  to  high  ideas. 
But  if  a  man  is  only  so  much  of  an  actor  that  he 
can  stumble  through  a  farce,  he  is  made  free  of 
a  new  order  of  thoughts.  He  has  something  else 
to  think  about  beside  the  money-box.  He  has  a 
pride  of  his  own,  and,  what  is  of  far  more  im- 
portance, he  has  an  aim  before  him  that  he  can 
never  quite  attain.  He  has  gone  upon  a  pilgrim- 
age that  will  last  him  his  life  long,  because  there 
is  no  end  to  it  short  of  perfection.  He  will 
better  himself  a  little  day  by  day ;  or,  even  if  he 

146 


PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES 

has  given  up  the  attempt,  he  will  always  remem- 
ber that  once  upon  a  time  he  had  conceived  this 
high  ideal,  that  once  upon  a  time  he  fell  in  love 
with  a  star.  'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and 
lost."  Although  the  moon  should  have  nothing 
to  say  to  Endymion,  although  he  should  settle 
down  with  Audrey  and  feed  pigs,  do  you  not 
think  he  would  move  with  a  better  grace  and 
cherish  higher  thoughts  to  the  end?  The  louts 
he  meets  at  church  never  had  a  fancy  above 
Audrey's  snood;  but  there  is  a  reminiscence  in 
Endymion's  heart  that,  like  a  spice,  keeps  it  fresh 
and  haughty. 

To  be  even  one  of  the  outskirters  of  art  leaves 
a  fine  stamp  on  a  man's  countenance.  I  remem- 
ber once  dining  with  a  party  in  the  inn  at  Chateau 
Landon.  Most  of  them  were  unmistakable  bag- 
men ;  others  well-to-do  peasantry ;  but  there  was 
one  young  fellow  in  a  blouse,  whose  face  stood 
out  from  among  the  rest  surprisingly.  It  looked 
more  finished;  more  of  the  spirit  looked  out 
through  it;  it  had  a  living,  expressive  air,  and  you 
could  see  that  his  eyes  took  things  in.  My  com- 
panion and  I  wondered  greatly  who  and  what  he 
could  be.  It  was  fair  time  in  Chateau  Landon, 
and  when  we  went  along  to  the  booths  we  had 
our  question  answered ;  for  there  was  our  friend 
busily  fiddling  for  the  peasants  to  caper  to.  He 
was  a  wandering  violinist. 

A  troop  of  strollers  once  came  to  the  inn  where 
I  was  staying,  in  the  department  of  Seine  et 

147 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

Marne.  There  were  a  father  and  mother;  two 
daughters,  brazen,  blowsy  hussies,  who  sang  and 
acted,  without  an  idea  of  how  to  set  about  either; 
and  a  dark  young  man,  like  a  tutor,  a  recalcitrant 
house-painter,  who  sang  and  acted  not  amiss. 
The  mother  was  the  genius  of  the  party,  so  far 
as  genius  can  be  spoken  of  with  regard  to  such  a 
pack  of  incompetent  humbugs ;  and  her  husband 
could  not  find  words  to  express  his  admiration 
for  her  comic  countryman.  'You  should  see 
my  old  woman,"  said  he,  and  nodded  his  beery 
countenance.  One  night  they  performed  in 
the  stable-yard,  with  flaring  lamps — a  wretched 
exhibition,  coldly  looked  upon  by  a  village  au- 
dience. Next  night,  as  soon  as  the  lamps  were 
lighted,  there  came  a  plump  of  rain,  and  they  had 
to  sweep  away  their  baggage  as  fast  as  possible, 
and  make  off  to  the  barn,  where  they  harboured, 
cold,  wet,  and  supperless.  In  the  morning  a  dear 
friend  of  mine,  who  has  as  warm  a  heart  for 
strollers  as  I  have  myself,  made  a  little  collection, 
and  sent  it  by  my  hands  to  comfort  them  for 
their  disappointment.  I  gave  it  to  the  father; 
he  thanked  me  cordially,  and  we  drank  a  cup 
together  in  the  kitchen,  talking  of  roads  and  au- 
diences, and  hard  times. 

When  I  was  going,  up  got  my  old  stroller,  and 
off  with  his  hat.  "I  am  afraid,"  said  he,  "that 
Monsieur  will  think  me  altogether  a  beggar;  but 
I  have  another  demand  to  make  upon  him."  I 
began  to  hate  him  on  the  spot.  "  We  play  again 

148 


PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES 

to-night,"  he  went  on.  "Of  course  I  shall  re- 
fuse to  accept  any  more  money  from  Monsieur 
and  his  friends,  who  have  been  already  so  liberal. 
But  our  programme  of  to-night  is  something 
truly  creditable;  and  I  cling  to  the  idea  that 
Monsieur  will  honour  us  with  his  presence." 
And  then,  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile:  "Monsieur 
understands, — the  vanity  of  an  artist!"  Save 
the  mark!  The  vanity  of  an  artist!  That  is 
the  kind  of  thing  that  reconciles  me  to  life:  a 
ragged,  tippling,  incompetent  old  rogue,  with  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman  and  the  vanity  of  an 
artist,  to  keep  up  his  self-respect! 

But  the  man  after  my  own  heart  is  M.  de 
Vauversin.  It  is  nearly  two  years  since  I  saw 
him  first,  and  indeed  I  hope  I  may  see  him  often 
again.  Here  is  his  first  programme,  as  I  found 
it  on  the  breakfast-table,  and  have  kept  it  ever 

since  as  a  relic  of  bright  days : 

"Mesdames  et  Messieurs, 

"Mademoiselle  Ferrario  et  M.  de  Vauversin 
auront  rhonneur  de  chanter  ce  soir  les  morceaux 
suivants. 

"Mademoiselle  Ferrario  chantera — Mignon — 
Oiseaux  Legers — France — Des  FranQais  dorment 
la — le  chateau  bleu — Ou  voulez-vous  aller? 

"M.  de  Vauversin — Madame  Fontaine  et  M, 
Robinet — Les  plongeurs  a  cheval — Le  Mari  mecon- 
tent — Tais-toi,  gamin — Mon  voisin  ^original — 
Heureux  comme  Qa — Comme  on  est  trompe." 

They  made  a  stage  at  one  end  of  the  salle-a- 
149 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

manger.  And  what  a  sight  it  was  to  see  M.  de 
Vauversin,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  twang- 
ing a  guitar,  and  following  Mademoiselle  Ferra- 
rio's  eyes  with  the  obedient,  kindly  look  of  a  dog! 
The  entertainment  wound  up  with  a  tombola,  or 
auction  of  lottery  tickets :  an  admirable  amuse- 
ment, with  all  the  excitement  of  gambling,  and 
no  hope  of  gain  to  make  you  ashamed  of  your 
eagerness;  for  there,  all  is  loss;  you  make  haste 
to  be  out  of  pocket ;  it  is  a  competition  who  shall 
lose  most  money  for  the  benefit  of  M.  de  Vauver- 
sin and  Mademoiselle  Ferrario. 

M.  de  Vauversin  is  a  small  man,  with  a  great 
head  of  black  hair,  a  vivacious  and  engaging  air, 
and  a  smile  that  would  be  delightful  if  he  had 
better  teeth.  He  was  once  an  actor  in  the 
Chatelet;  but  he  contracted  a  nervous  affection 
from  the  heat  and  glare  of  the  foot-lights,  which 
unfitted  him  for  the  stage.  At  this  crisis  Made- 
moiselle Ferrario,  otherwise  Mademoiselle  Rita 
of  the  Alcazar,  agreed  to  share  his  wandering 
fortunes.  "I  could  never  forget  the  generosity 
of  that  lady,"  said  he.  He  wears  trousers  so 
tight  that  it  has  long  been  a  problem  to  all  who 
knew  him  how  he  manages  to  get  in  and  out  of 
them.  He  sketches  a  little  in  water-colours;  he 
writes  verses;  he  is  the  most  patient  of  fisher- 
men, and  spent  long  days  at  the  bottom  of  the 
inn  garden  fruitlessly  dabbling  a  line  in  the  clear 
river. 

You  should  hear  him  recounting  his  experi- 
150 


PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES 

ences  over  a  bottle  of  wine;  such  a  pleasant  vein 
of  talk  as  he  has,  with  a  ready  smile  at  his  own 
mishaps,  and  every  now  and  then  a  sudden 
gravity,  like  a  man  who  should  hear  the  surf 
roar  while  he  was  telling  the  perils  of  the  deep. 
For  it  was  no  longer  ago  than  last  night,  perhaps, 
that  the  receipts  only  amounted  to  a  franc  and 
a  half  to  cover  three  francs  of  railway  fare  and 
two  of  board  and  lodging.  The  Maire,  a  man 
worth  a  million  of  money,  sat  in  the  front  seat, 
repeatedly  applauding  Mile.  Ferrario,  and  yet 
gave  no  more  than  three  sous  the  whole  evening. 
Local  authorities  look  with  such  an  evil  eye  upon 
the  strolling  artist.  Alas!  I  know  it  well,  who 
have  been  myself  taken  for  one,  and  pitilessly 
incarcerated  on  the  strength  of  the  misappre- 
hension. Once,  M.  de  Vauversin  visited  a  com- 
missary of  police  for  permission  to  sing.  The 
commissary,  who  was  smoking  at  his  ease, 
politely  doffed  his  hat  upon  the  singer's  entrance. 
"Mr.  Commissary,"  he  began,  "I  am  an  artist." 
And  on  went  the  commissary's  hat  again.  No 
courtesy  for  the  companions  of  Apollo!  "They 
are  as  degraded  as  that,"  said  M.  de  Vauversin, 
with  a  sweep  of  his  cigarette. 

But  what  pleased  me  most  was  one  outbreak 
of  his,  when  we  had  been  talking  all  the  evening 
of  the  rubs,  indignities,  and  pinchings  of  his  wan- 
dering life.  Some  one  said  it  would  be  better 
to  have  a  million  of  money  down,  and  Mile. 
Ferrario  admitted  that  she  would  prefer  that 

151 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

mightily.  "Eh  bien,  moi  non; — not  I,"  cried 
De  Vauversin,  striking  the  table  with  his  hand. 
"If  any  one  is  a  failure  in  the  world,  is  it  not  I? 
I  had  an  art,  in  which  I  have  done  things  well, — 
as  well  as  some — better,  perhaps,  than  others; 
and  now  it  is  closed  against  me.  I  must  go  about 
the  country  gathering  coppers  and  singing  non- 
sense. Do  you  think  I  regret  my  life?  Do 
you  think  I  would  rather  be  a  fat  burgess,  like  a 
calf?  Not  I !  I  have  had  moments  when  I  have 
been  applauded  on  the  boards:  I  think  nothing 
of  that ;  but  I  have  known  in  my  own  mind  some- 
times, when  I  had  not  a  clap  from  the  whole 
house,  that  I  had  found  a  true  intonation,  or  an 
exact  and  speaking  gesture ;  and  then,  messieurs, 
I  have  known  what  pleasure  was,  what  it  was 
to  do  a  thing  well,  what  it  was  to  be  an  artist. 
And  to  know  what  art  is,  is  to  have  an  interest 
forever,  such  as  no  burgess  can  find  in  his  petty 
concerns.  Tenez,  messieurs,  je  vais  vous  le  dire, 
— it  is  like  a  religion." 

Such,  making  some  allowance  for  the  tricks  of 
memory  and  the  inaccuracies  of  translation,  was 
the  profession  of  faith  of  M.  de  Vauversin.  I 
have  given  him  his  own  name,  lest  any  other 
wanderer  should  come  across  him,  with  his  guitar 
and  cigarette,  and  Mademoiselle  Ferrario;  for 
should  not  all  the  world  delight  to  honour  this 
unfortunate  and  loyal  follower  of  the  Muses? 
May  Apollo  send  him  rhymes  hitherto  un- 
dreamed of;  may  the  river  be  no  longer  scanty 

152 


PRECY  AND  THE  MARIONETTES 

of  her  silver  fishes  to  his  lure;  may  the  cold  not 
pinch  him  on  long  winter  rides,  nor  the  village 
jack-in-office  affront  him  with  unseemly  man- 
ners; and  may  he  never  miss  Mademoiselle 
Ferrario  from  his  side,  to  follow  with  his  dutiful 
eyes  and  accompany  on  the  guitar! 

The  marionettes  made  a  very  dismal  entertain- 
ment. They  performed  a  piece  called  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe,  in  five  mortal  acts,  and  all  written 
in  Alexandrines  fully  as  long  as  the  performers. 
One  marionette  was  the  king ;  another  the  wicked 
counsellor;  a  third,  credited  with  exceptional 
beauty,  represented  Thisbe;  and  then  there 
were  guards,  and  obdurate  fathers,  and  walking 
gentlemen.  Nothing  particular  took  place  dur- 
ing the  two  or  three  acts  that  I  sat  out ;  but  you 
will  be  pleased  to  learn  that  the  unities  were 
properly  respected,  and  the  whole  piece,  with 
one  exception,  moved  in  harmony  with  classical 
rules.  That  exception  was  the  comic  country- 
man, a  lean  marionette  in  wooden  shoes,  who 
spoke  in  prose  and  in  a  broad  patois  much 
appreciated  by  the  audience.  He  took  uncon- 
stitutional liberties  with  the  person  of  his  sover- 
eign; kicked  his  fellow-marionettes  in  the  mouth 
with  his  wooden  shoes,  and  whenever  none  of 
the  versifying  suitors  were  about,  made  love  to 
Thisbe  on  his  own  account  in  comic  prose. 

This  fellow's  evolutions,  and  the  little  pro- 
logue, in  which  the  showman  made  a  humorous 
eulogium  of  his  troop,  praising  their  indifference 

153 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

to  applause  and  hisses,  and  their  single  devotion 
to  their  art,  were  the  only  circumstances  in  the 
whole  affair  that  you  could  fancy  would  so  much 
as  raise  a  smile.  But  the  villagers  of  Precy 
seemed  delighted.  Indeed,  so  long  as  a  thing  is 
an  exhibition,  and  you  pay  to  see  it,  it  is  nearly 
certain  to  amuse.  If  we  were  charged  so  much 
a  head  for  sunsets,  or  if  God  sent  round  a  drum 
before  the  hawthorns  came  in  flower,  what  work 
should  we  not  make  about  their  beauty!  But 
these  things,  like  good  companions,  stupid 
people  early  cease  to  observe;  and  the  Abstract 
Bagman  tittups  past  in  his  spring  gig,  and  is 
positively  not  aware  of  the  flowers  along  the 
lane,  or  the  scenery  of  the  weather  overhead. 


154 


BACK  TO  THE  WORLD 

OF  the  next  two  days'  sail  little  remains  in 
my  mind,  and  nothing  whatever  in  my 
note-book.  The  river  streamed  on  steadily 
through  pleasant  river-side  landscapes.  Washer- 
women in  blue  dresses,  fishers  in  blue  blouses, 
diversified  the  green  banks;  and  the  relation  of 
the  two  colours  was  like  that  of  the  flower  and 
the  leaf  in  the  forget-me-not.  A  symphony  in 
forget-me-not;  I  think  Theophile  Gautier  might 
thus  have  characterised  that  two  days'  pano- 
rama. The  sky  was  blue  and  cloudless;  and  the 
sliding  surface  of  the  river  held  up,  in  smooth 
places,  a  mirror  to  the  heaven  and  the  shores. 
The  washerwomen  hailed  us  laughingly;  and 
the  noise  of  trees  and  water  made  an  accompani- 
ment to  our  dozing  thoughts,  as  we  fleeted  down 
the  stream. 

The  great  volume,  the  indefatigable  purpose 
of  the  river,  held  the  mind  in  chain.  It  seemed 
now  so  sure  of  its  end,  so  strong  and  easy  in  its 
gait,  like  a  grown  man  full  of  determination. 

155 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

The  surf  was  roaring  for  it  on  the  sands  of 
Havre. 

For  my  own  part  slipping  along  this  moving 
thoroughfare  in  my  fiddle-case  of  a  canoe,  I  also 
was  beginning  to  grow  aweary  for  my  ocean. 
To  the  civilised  man  there  must  come,  sooner  or 
later,  a  desire  for  civilisation.  I  was  weary  of 
dipping  the  paddle;  I  was  weary  of  living  on 
the  skirts  of  lif e ;  I  wished  to  be  in  the  thick  of  it 
once  more;  I  wished  to  get  to  work;  I  wished  to 
meet  people  who  understood  my  own  speech, 
and  could  meet  with  me  on  equal  terms,  as  a 
man,  and  no  longer  as  a  curiosity. 

And  so  a  letter  at  Pontoise  decided  us,  and  we 
drew  up  our  keels  for  the  last  time  out  of  that 
river  of  Oise  that  had  faithfully  piloted  them, 
through  rain  and  sunshine,  for  so  long.  For  so 
many  miles  had  this  fleet  and  footless  beast  of 
burden  charioted  our  fortunes  that  we  turned  our 
back  upon  it  with  a  sense  of  separation.  We  had 
made  a  long  detour  out  of  the  world,  but  now  we 
were  back  in  the  familiar  places,  where  life  itself 
makes  ah1  the  running,  and  we  are  carried  to 
meet  adventure  without  a  stroke  of  the  paddle. 
Now  we  were  to  return,  like  the  voyager  in  the 
play,  and  see  what  rearrangements  fortune  had 
perfected  the  while  in  our  surroundings;  what 
surprises  stood  ready  made  for  us  at  home;  and 
whither  and  how  far  the  world  had  voyaged  in 
our  absence.  You  may  paddle  all  day  long ;  but 
it  is  when  you  come  back  at  nightfall,  and  look 

156 


BACK  TO  THE  WORLD 

in  at  the  familiar  room,  that  you  find  Love  or 
Death  awaiting  you  beside  the  stove;  and  the 
most  beautiful  adventures  are  not  those  we  go  to 
seek. 


157 


EPILOGUE* 

country  where  they  journeyed,  that 
JL  green,  breezy  valley  of  the  Loing,  is  one 
very  attractive  to  cheerful  and  solitary  people. 
The  weather  was  superb;  all  night  it  thundered 
and  lightened,  and  the  rain  fell  in  sheets ;  by  day, 
the  heavens  were  cloudless,  the  sun  fervent,  the 
air  vigorous  and  pure.  They  walked  separate: 
the  Cigarette  plodding  behind  with  some  philos- 
ophy, the  lean  Arethusa  posting  on  ahead.  Thus 
each  enjoyed  his  own  reflections  by  the  way ;  each 
had  perhaps  time  to  tire  of  them  before  he  met 
his  comrade  at  the  designated  inn ;  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  society  and  solitude  combined  to  fill  the 
day.  The  Arethusa  carried  in  his  knapsack 
the  works  of  Charles  of  Orleans,  and  employed 
some  of  the  hours  of  travel  in  the  concoction  of 
English  roundels.  In  this  path,  he  must  thus 
have  preceded  Mr.  Lang,  Mr.  Dobson,  Mr. 
Henley,  and  all  contemporary  roundeleers;  but 
for  good  reasons,  he  will  be  the  last  to  publish 
the  result.  The  Cigarette  walked  burthened 

*  Originally  published  in  "Across  the  Plains." 

158 


EPILOGUE 

with  a  volume  of  Michelet.  And  both  these 
books,  it  will  be  seen,  played  a  part  in  the  sub- 
sequent adventure. 

The  Arethusa  was  unwisely  dressed.  He  is  no 
precisian  in  attire;  but  by  all  accounts,  he  was 
never  so  ill-inspired  as  on  that  tramp ;  having  set 
forth  indeed,  upon  a  moment's  notice,  from  the 
most  unfashionable  spot  in  Europe,  Barbizon. 
On  his  head,  he  wore  a  smoking-cap  of  Indian 
work,  the  gold  lace  pitifully  frayed  and  tarnished. 
A  flannel  shirt  of  an  agreeable  dark  hue,  which 
the  satirical  called  black;  a  light  tweed  coat 
made  by  a  good  English  tailor;  ready-made 
cheap  linen  trousers  and  leathern  gaiters  com- 
pleted his  array.  In  person,  he  is  exceptionally 
lean;  and  his  face  is  not  like  those  of  happier 
mortals,  a  certificate.  For  years  he  could  not 
pass  a  frontier  or  visit  a  bank  without  suspicion; 
the  police  everywhere,  but  in  his  native  city, 
looked  askance  upon  him ;  and  (though  I  am  sure 
it  will  not  be  credited)  he  is  actually  denied  ad- 
mittance to  the  casino  of  Monte  Carlo.  If  you 
will  imagine  him,  dressed  as  above,  stooping 
under  his  knapsack,  walking  nearly  five  miles 
an  hour  with  the  folds  of  the  ready-made  trousers 
fluttering  about  his  spindle  shanks,  and  still 
looking  eagerly  round  him  as  if  in  terror  of  pur- 
suit— the  figure,  when  realised,  is  far  from  re- 
assuring. When  Villon  journeyed  (perhaps  by 
the  same  pleasant  valley)  to  his  exile  at  Roussil- 
lon,  I  wonder  if  he  had  not  something  of  the  same 

159 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

appearance.  Something  of  the  same  preoccupa- 
tion he  had  beyond  a  doubt,  for  he  too  must  have 
tinkered  verses  as  he  walked,  with  more  success 
than  his  successor.  And  if  he  had  anything  like 
the  same  inspiring  weather,  the  same  nights  of 
uproar,  men  in  armour  rolling  and  resounding 
down  the  stairs  of  heaven,  the  rain  hissing  on 
the  village  streets,  the  wild  bull's-eye  of  the 
storm  flashing  all  night  long  into  the  bare  inn- 
chamber — the  same  sweet  return  of  day,  the 
same  unfathomable  blue  of  noon,  the  same  high- 
coloured,  halcyon  eyes — and,  above  all,  if  he  had 
anything  like  as  good  a  comrade,  anything  like  as 
keen  a  relish  for  what  he  saw,  and  what  he  ate, 
and  the  rivers  that  he  bathed  in,  and  the  rubbish 
that  he  wrote,  I  would  exchange  estates  to-day 
with  the  poor  exile,  and  count  myself  a  gainer. 

But  there  was  another  point  of  similarity  be- 
tween the  two  journeys,  for  which  the  Arethusa 
was  to  pay  dear:  both  were  gone  upon  in  days 
of  incomplete  security.  It  was  not  long  after 
the  Franco-Prussian  war.  Swiftly  as  men  for- 
get, that  country-side  was  still  alive  with  tales 
of  uhlans,  and  outlying  sentries,  and  hairbreadth 
'scapes  from  the  ignominious  cord,  and  pleasant 
momentary  friendships  between  invader  and  in- 
vaded. A  year,  at  the  most  two  years  later,  you 
might  have  tramped  all  that  country  over  and 
not  heard  one  anecdote.  And  a  year  or  two 
later,  you  would — if  you  were  a  rather  ill-looking 
young  man  in  nondescript  array — have  gone 

160 


EPILOGUE 

your  rounds  in  greater  safety;  for  along  with 
more  interesting  matter,  the  Prussian  spy  would 
have  somewhat  faded  from  men's  imaginations. 
For  all  that,  our  voyager  had  got  beyond  Cha- 
teau Renard  before  he  was  conscious  of  arousing 
wonder.  On  the  road  between  that  place  and 
Chatillon-sur-Loing,  however,  he  encountered 
a  rural  postman;  they  fell  together  in  talk,  and 
spoke  of  a  variety  of  subjects;  but  through  one 
and  all,  the  postman  was  still  visibly  preoccu- 
pied, and  his  eyes  were  faithful  to  the  Arethusa's 
knapsack.  At  last,  with  mysterious  roguish- 
ness,  he  inquired  what  it  contained,  and  on 
being  answered,  shook  his  head  with  kindly  in- 
credulity. "./Von,"  said  he,  "non,  vous  avez  des 
portraits."  And  then  with  a  languishing  appeal, 
"  Voyons,  show  me  the  portraits! "  It  was  some 
little  while  before  the  Arethusa,  with  a  shout  of 
laughter,  recognised  his  drift.  By  portraits  he 
meant  indecent  photographs;  and  in  the  Are- 
thusa, an  austere  and  rising  author,  he  thought 
to  have  identified  a  pornographic  colporteur. 
When  countryfolk  in  France  have  made  up  their 
minds  as  to  a  person's  calling,  argument  is  fruit- 
less. Along  all  the  rest  of  the  way,  the  postman 
piped  and  fluted  meltingly  to  get  a  sight  of  the 
collection ;  now  he  would  upbraid,  now  he  would 
reason — "  Voyons,  I  will  tell  nobody";  then  he 
tried  corruption,  and  insisted  on  paying  for  a 
glass  of  wine;  and,  at  last,  when  their  ways 
separated — "./Vo/i,"  said  he,  "ce  n'est  pas  bien  de 

161 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

wire  part.  0  non,  ce  n'est  pas  Men."  And  shak- 
ing his  head  with  quite  a  sentimental  sense  of 
injury,  he  departed  unrefreshed. 

On  certain  little  difficulties  encountered  by 
the  Arethasa  at  Chatillon-sur-Loing,  I  have  not 
space  to  dwell;  another  Chatillon,  of  grislier 
memory,  looms  too  near  at  hand.  But  the  next 
day,  in  a  certain  hamlet  called  La  Jussiere,  he 
stopped  to  drink  a  glass  of  syrup  in  a  very  poor, 
bare  drinking-shop.  The  hostess,  a  comely 
woman,  suckling  a  child,  examined  the  traveller 
with  kindly  and  pitying  eyes.  "You  are  not 
of  this  department?"  she  asked.  The  Arethusa 
told  her  he  was  English.  "Ah!"  she  said,  sur- 
prised. "We  have  no  English.  We  have  many 
Italians,  however,  and  they  do  very  well;  they 
do  not  complain  of  the  people  of  hereabouts.  An 
Englishman  may  do  very  well  also;  it  will  be 
something  new."  Here  was  a  dark  saying,  over 
which  the  Arethusa  pondered  as  he  drank  his 
grenadine ;  but  when  he  rose  and  asked  what  was 
to  pay,  the  light  came  upon  him  in  a  flash.  "  Oh, 
pour  vous,"  replied  the  landlady,  "a  halfpenny!" 
Pour  vous?  By  heaven,  she  took  him  for  a 
beggar!  He  paid  his  halfpenny,  feeling  that  it 
were  ungracious  to  correct  her.  But  when 
he  was  forth  again  upon  the  road,  he  became 
vexed  in  spirit.  The  conscience  is  no  gentleman, 
he  is  a  rabbinical  fellow ;  and  his  conscience  told 
him  he  had  stolen  the  syrup. 

That  night  the  travellers  slept  in  Gien;  the 
162 


EPILOGUE 

next  day  they  passed  the  river  and  set  forth 
(severally,  as  their  custom  was)  on  a  short  stage 
through  the  green  plain  upon  the  Berry  side,  to 
Chatillon-sur-Loire.  It  was  the  first  day  of  the 
shooting ;  and  the  air  rang  with  the  report  of  fire- 
arms and  the  admiring  cries  of  sportsmen.  Over- 
head the  birds  were  in  consternation,  wheeling  in 
clouds,  settling  and  re-arising.  And  yet  with  all 
this  bustle  on  either  hand,  the  road  itself  lay  soli- 
tary. The  Arethusa  smoked  a  pipe  beside  a  mile- 
stone, and  I  remember  he  laid  down  very  exactly 
all  he  was  to  do  at  Chatillon:  how  he  was  to  en- 
joy a  cold  plunge,  to  change  his  shirt,  and  to 
await  the  Cigarette's  arrival,  in  sublime  inaction, 
by  the  margin  of  the  Loire.  Fired  by  these 
ideas,  he  pushed  the  more  rapidly  forward,  and 
came,  early  in  the  afternoon  and  in  a  breathing 
heat,  to  the  entering-in  of  that  ill-fated  town. 
Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came. 

A  polite  gendarme  threw  his  shadow  on  the 
path. 

"Monsieur  est  voyageur?"  he  asked. 

And  the  Arethusa,  strong  in  his  innocence,  for- 
getful of  his  vile  attire,  replied — I  had  almost 
said  with  gaiety:  "So  it  would  appear." 

"His  papers  are  in  order? "  said  the  gendarme. 
And  when  the  Arethusa  with  a  slight  change  of 
voice,  admitted  he  had  none,  he  was  informed 
(politely  enough)  that  he  must  appear  before 
the  Commissary. 

The  Commissary  sat  at  a  table  in  his  bedroom, 
163 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

stripped  to  the  shirt  and  trousers,  but  still  copi- 
ously perspiring;  and  when  he  turned  upon  the 
prisoner  a  large  meaningless  countenance,  that 
was  (like  Bardolph's)  "ah1  whelks  and  bubuck- 
les,"  the  dullest  might  have  been  prepared  for 
grief.  Here  was  a  stupid  man,  sleepy  with  the 
heat  and  fretful  at  the  interruption,  whom 
neither  appeal  nor  argument  could  reach. 

THE  COMMISSARY.    You  have  no  papers? 

THE  ARETHUSA.     Not  here. 

THE  COMMISSARY.     Why? 

THE  ARETHUSA.  I  have  left  them  behind  in 
my  valise. 

THE  COMMISSARY.  You  know,  however,  that 
it  is  forbidden  to  circulate  without  papers? 

THE  ARETHUSA.  Pardon  me :  I  am  convinced 
of  the  contrary.  I  am  here  on  my  rights  as  an 
English  subject  by  international  treaty. 

THE  COMMISSARY  (with  scorn).  You  call 
yourself  an  Englishman? 

THE  ARETHUSA.     I  do. 

THE  COMMISSARY.  Humph. — What  is  your 
trade? 

THE  ARETHUSA.     I  am  a  Scottish  Advocate. 

THE  COMMISSARY  (with  singular  annwance). 
A  Scottish  advocate!  Do  you  then  pretend  to 
support  yourself  by  that  in  this  Department? 

The  Arethusa  modestly  disclaimed  the  preten- 
sion. The  Commissary  had  scored  a  point. 

THE  COMMISSARY.  Why,  then,  do  you 
travel? 

164 


EPILOGUE 

THE  ARETHUSA.     I  travel  for  pleasure. 

THE  COMMISSARY  (pointing  to  the  knapsack, 
and  with  sublime  incredulity).  Avec  ga?  Voyez- 
vous,  je  suis  un  homme  intelligent!  (With  that? 
Look  here,  I  am  a  person  of  intelligence  I) 

The  culprit  remaining  silent  under  this  home 
thrust,  the  Commissary  relished  his  triumph  for 
awhile,  and  then  demanded  (like  the  postman, 
but  with  what  different  expectations!)  to  see  the 
contents  of  the  knapsack.  And  here  the  Are- 
thusa,  not  yet  sufficiently  awake  to  his  position, 
fell  into  a  grave  mistake.  There  was  little  or 
no  furniture  in  the  room  except  the  Commis- 
sary's chair  and  table;  and  to  facilitate  matters, 
the  Arethusa  (with  all  the  innocence  on  earth) 
leant  the  knapsack  on  a  corner  of  the  bed.  The 
Commissary  fairly  bounded  from  his  seat;  his 
face  and  neck  flushed  past  purple,  almost  into 
blue;  and  he  screamed  to  lay  the  desecrating 
object  on  the  floor. 

The  knapsack  proved  to  contain  a  change  of 
shirts,  of  shoes,  of  socks,  and  of  linen  trousers, 
a  small  dressing-case,  a  piece  of  soap  in  one  of 
the  shoes,  two  volumes  of  the  Collection  Jannet 
lettered  Poesies  de  Charles  d'Orleans,  a  map,  and 
a  version  book  containing  divers  notes  in  prose 
and  the  remarkable  English  roundels  of  the  voy- 
ager, still  to  this  day  unpublished:  the  Commis- 
sary of  Chatillon  is  the  only  living  man  who  has 
clapped  an  eye  on  these  artistic  trifles.  He 
turned  the  assortment  over  with  a  contumelious 

165 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

finger;  it  was  plain  from  his  daintiness  that  he  re- 
garded the  Arethusa  and  all  his  belongings  as  the 
very  temple  of  infection.  Still  there  was  nothing 
suspicious  about  the  map,  nothing  really  criminal 
except  the  roundels;  as  for  Charles  of  Orleans, 
to  the  ignorant  mind  of  the  prisoner,  he  seemed 
as  good  as  a  certificate;  and  it  was  supposed  the 
farce  was  nearly  over. 

The  inquisitor  resumed  his  seat. 

THE  COMMISSARY  (after  a  pause).  Eh  bien, 
je  vais  vous  dire  ce  que  vous  etes.  Vous  etes  alle- 
mand  et  vous  venez  chanter  a  lafoire.  (Well,  then, 
I  will  tell  you  what  you  are.  You  are  a  German 
and  have  come  to  sing  at  the  fair.) 

THE  ARETHUSA.  Would  you  like  to  hear  me 
sing?  I  believe  I  could  convince  you  of  the  con- 
trary. 

THE  COMMISSARY.  Pas  de  plaisanterie,  mon- 
sieur ! 

THE  ARETHUSA.  Well,  sir,  oblige  me  at  least 
by  looking  at  this  book.  Here,  I  open  it  with 
my  eyes  shut.  Read  one  of  these  songs — read 
this  one — and  tell  me,  you  who  are  a  man  of  in- 
telligence, if  it  would  be  possible  to  sing  it  at  a 
fair? 

THE  COMMISSARY  (critically).  Mais  oui. 
Tres  bien. 

THE  ARETHUSA.  Comment,  monsieur!  What! 
But  you  do  not  observe  it  is  antique.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  understand,  even  for  you  and  me ;  but  for 
the  audience  at  a  fair,  it  would  be  meaningless. 

166 


EPILOGUE 

THE  COMMISSARY  (taking  a  pen).  Enfin,  il 
faut  en  finir.  What  is  your  name? 

THE  ARETHUSA  (speaking  with  the  swallowing 
vivacity  of  the  English) .  Robert-Louis-Stev'ns'n. 

THE  COMMISSARY  (aghast).    He!    Quoi? 

THE  ARETHUSA  (perceiving  and  improving  his 
advantage) .  Rob'rt-Lou's-Stev'ns'n. 

THE  COMMISSARY  (after  several  conflicts  with 
his  pen).  Eh  bien,  ilfaut  se  passer  du  nom.  Qa 
ne  s'ecrit  pas.  (Well,  we  must  do  without  the 
name:  it  is  unspellable.) 

The  above  is  a  rough  summary  of  this  moment- 
ous conversation,  in  which  I  have  been  chiefly 
careful  to  preserve  the  plums  of  the  Commissary ; 
but  the  remainder  of  the  scene,  perhaps  because 
of  his  rising  anger,  has  left  but  little  definite  in 
the  memory  of  the  Arethusa.  The  Commissary 
was  not,  I  think,  a  practised  literary  man;  no 
sooner,  at  least,  had  he  taken  pen  in  hand  and 
embarked  on  the  composition  of  the  proces-verbal, 
than  he  became  distinctly  more  uncivil  and  be- 
gan to  show  a  predilection  for  that  simplest  of 
all  forms  of  repartee :  "You  lie ! "  Several  times 
the  Arethusa  let  it  pass,  and  then  suddenly  flared 
up,  refused  to  accept  more  insults  or  to  answer 
further  questions,  defied  the  Commissary  to  do 
his  worst,  and  promised  him,  if  he  did,  that  he 
should  bitterly  repent  it.  Perhaps  if  he  had 
worn  his  proud  front  from  the  first,  instead  of 
beginning  with  a  sense  of  entertainment  and  then 
going  on  to  argue,  the  thing  might  have  turned 

167 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

otherwise;  for  even  at  this  eleventh  hour  the 
Commissary  was  visibly  staggered.  But  it  was 
too  late;  he  had  been  challenged;  the  proces- 
verbal  was  begun;  and  he  again  squared  his  el- 
bows over  his  writing,  and  the  Arethusa  was  led 
forth  a  prisoner. 

A  step  or  two  down  the  hot  road  stood  the 
gendarmerie.  Thither  was  our  unfortunate  con- 
ducted, and  there  he  was  bidden  to  empty  forth 
the  contents  of  his  pockets.  A  handkerchief,  a 
pen,  a  pencil,  a  pipe  and  tobacco,  matches,  and 
some  ten  francs  of  change:  that  was  all.  Not 
a  file,  not  a  cipher,  not  a  scrap  of  writing  whether 
to  identify  or  to  condemn.  The  very  gendarme 
was  appalled  before  such  destitution. 

"I  regret,"  he  said,  "that  I  arrested  you,  for  I 
see  that  you  are  no  voyou."  And  he  promised 
him  every  indulgence. 

The  Arethusa,  thus  encouraged,  asked  for  his 
pipe.  That  he  was  told  was  impossible,  but  if 
he  chewed,  he  might  have  some  tobacco.  He 
did  not  chew,  however,  and  asked  instead  to 
have  his  handkerchief. 

"  Non,"  said  the  gendarme.  "  Nous  avons  eu  des 
histoires  de  gens  qui  se  sont  pendus. ' '  (No,  we  have 
had  histories  of  people  who  hanged  themselves.) 

"What,"  cried  the  Arethusa.  "And  is  it  for 
that  you  refuse  me  my  handkerchief?  But  see 
how  much  more  easily  I  could  hang  myself  in 
my  trousers!" 

The  man  was  struck  by  the  novelty  of  the 
168 


EPILOGUE 

idea;  but  he  stuck  to  his  colours,  and  only  con- 
tinued to  repeat  vague  offers  of  service. 

"At  least,"  said  the  Arethusa,  "be  sure  that 
you  arrest  my  comrade ;  he  will  follow  me  ere  long 
on  the  same  road,  and  you  can  tell  him  by  the 
sack  upon  his  shoulders." 

This  promised,  the  prisoner  was  led  round  into 
the  back  court  of  the  building,  a  cellar  door  was 
opened,  he  was  motioned  down  the  stair,  and 
bolts  grated  and  chains  clanged  behind  his  de- 
scending person. 

The  philosophic  and  still  more  the  imaginative 
mind  is  apt  to  suppose  itself  prepared  for  any 
mortal  accident.  Prison,  among  other  ills,  was 
one  that  had  been  often  faced  by  the  undaunted 
Arethusa.  Even  as  he  went  down  the  stairs,  he 
was  telling  himself  that  here  was  a  famous  occa- 
sion for  a  roundel,  and  that  like  the  committed 
linnets  of  the  tuneful  cavalier,  he  too  would 
make  his  prison  musical.  I  will  tell  the  truth 
at  once:  the  roundel  was  never  written,  or  it 
should  be  printed  in  this  place,  to  raise  a  smile. 
Two  reasons  interfered:  the  first  moral,  the 
second  physical. 

It  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  human  nature, 
that  although  all  men  are  liars,  they  can  none  of 
them  bear  to  be  told  so  of  themselves.  To  get 
and  take  the  lie  with  equanimity  is  a  stretch  be- 
yond the  stoic;  and  the  Arethusa,  who  had  been 
surfeited  upon  that  insult,  was  blazing  inwardly 
Avith  a  white  heat  of  smothered  wrath.  But  the 

169 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

physical  had  also  its  part.  The  cellar  in  which 
he  was  confined  was  some  feet  underground,  and 
it  was  only  lighted  by  an  unglazed,  narrow  aper- 
ture high  up  in  the  wall  and  smothered  in  the 
leaves  of  a  green  vine.  The  walls  were  of  naked 
masonry,  the  floor  of  bare  earth ;  by  way  of  fur- 
niture there  was  an  earthenware  basin,  a  water- 
jug,  and  a  wooden  bedstead  with  a  blue-grey 
cloak  for  bedding.  To  be  taken  from  the  hot  air 
of  a  summer's  afternoon,  the  reverberation  of  the 
road  and  the  stir  of  rapid  exercise,  and  plunged 
into  the  gloom  and  damp  of  this  receptacle  for 
vagabonds,  struck  an  instant  chill  upon  the 
Arethusa's  blood.  Now  see  in  how  small  a 
matter  a  hardship  may  consist:  the  floor  was 
exceedingly  uneven  underfoot,  with  the  very 
spade-marks,  I  suppose,  of  the  labourers  who 
dug  the  foundations  of  the  barrack;  and  what 
with  the  poor  twilight  and  the  irregular  surface, 
walking  was  impossible.  The  caged  author  re- 
sisted for  a  good  while ;  but  the  chill  of  the  place 
struck  deeper  and  deeper;  and  at  length,  with 
such  reluctance  as  you  may  fancy,  he  was  driven 
to  climb  upon  the  bed  and  wrap  himself  in  the 
public  covering.  There,  then,  he  lay  upon  the 
verge  of  shivering,  plunged  in  semi-darkness, 
wound  in  a  garment  whose  touch  he  dreaded  like 
the  plague,  and  (in  a  spirit  far  removed  from 
resignation)  telling  the  roll  of  the  insults  he  had 
just  received.  These  are  not  circumstances 
favourable  to  the  Muse. 

170 


EPILOGUE 

Meantime  (to  look  at  the  upper  surface  where 
the  sun  was  still  shining  and  the  guns  of  sports- 
men were  still  noisy  through  the  tufted  plain) 
the  Cigarette  was  drawing  near  at  his  more  philo- 
sophic pace.  In  those  days  of  liberty  and  health 
he  was  the  constant  partner  of  the  Arethusa,  and 
had  ample  opportunity  to  share  in  that  gentle- 
man's disfavour  with  the  police.  Many  a  bitter 
bowl  had  he  partaken  of  with  that  disastrous 
comrade.  He  was  himself  a  man  born  to  float 
easily  through  life,  his  face  and  manner  artfully 
recommending  him  to  all.  There  was  but  one 
suspicious  circumstance  he  could  not  carry  off, 
and  that  was  his  companion.  He  will  not  readily 
forget  the  Commissary  in  what  is  ironically 
called  the  free  town  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main ; 
nor  the  Franco-Belgian  frontier;  nor  the  inn  at 
La  Fere;  last,  but  not  least,  he  is  pretty  certain 
to  remember  Chatillon-sur-Loire. 

At  the  town  entry,  the  gendarme  culled  him 
like  a  wayside  flower;  and  a  moment  later,  two 
persons,  in  a  high  state  of  surprise,  were  con- 
fronted in  the  Commissary's  office.  For  if  the 
Cigarette  was  surprised  to  be  arrested,  the  Com- 
missary was  no  less  taken  aback  by  the  appear- 
ance and  appointments  of  his  captive.  Here 
was  a  man  about  whom  there  could  be  no  mis- 
take :  a  man  of  an  unquestionable  and  unassail- 
able manner,  in  apple-pie  order,  dressed  not  with 
neatness  merely  but  elegance,  ready  with  his 
passport,  at  a  word,  and  well  supplied  with 

171 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

money :  a  man  the  Commissary  would  have  dof- 
fed his  hat  to  on  chance  upon  the  highway; 
and  this  beau  cavalier  unblushingly  claimed  the 
Arethusa  for  his  comrade!  The  conclusion  of 
the  interview  was  foregone;  of  its  humours,  I 
remember  only  one.  "Baronet?"  demanded 
the  magistrate,  glancing  up  from  the  passport. 
"  Alors,  monsieur,  vous  etes  le  fils  d'un  baron?" 
And  when  the  Cigarette  (his  one  mistake  through- 
out the  interview)  denied  the  soft  impeach- 
ment, "Alors"  from  the  Commissary,  "ce 
n'est  pas  votre  passeport!"  But  these  were  in- 
effectual thunders;  he  never  dreamed  of  laying 
hands  upon  the  Cigarette;  presently  he  fell  into 
a  mood  of  unrestrained  admiration,  gloating  over 
the  contents  of  the  knapsack,  commending  our 
friend's  tailor.  Ah,  what  an  honoured  guest  was 
the  Commissary  entertaining!  what  suitable 
clothes  he  wore  for  the  warm  weather!  what 
beautiful  maps,  what  an  attractive  work  of  his- 
tory he  carried  in  his  knapsack!  You  are  to 
understand  there  was  now  but  one  point  of  differ- 
ence between  them:  what  was  to  be  done  with 
the  Arethusa?  the  Cigarette  demanding  his  re- 
lease, the  Commissary  still  claiming  him  as  the 
dungeon's  own.  Now  it  chanced  that  the 
Cigarette  had  passed  some  years  of  his  life  in 
Egypt,  where  he  had  made  acquaintance  with 
two  very  bad  things,  cholera  morbus  and  pashas; 
and  in  the  eye  of  the  Commissary,  as  he  fingered 
the  volume  of  Michelet,  it  seemed  to  our  traveller 

172 


EPILOGUE 

there  was  something  Turkish.  I  pass  over  this 
lightly ;  it  is  highly  possible  there  was  some  mis- 
understanding, highly  possible  that  the  Com- 
missary (charmed  with  his  visitor)  supposed  the 
attraction  to  be  mutual  and  took  for  an  act 
of  growing  friendship  what  the  Cigarette  himself 
regarded  as  a  bribe.  And  at  any  rate,  was  there 
ever  a  bribe  more  singular  than  an  odd  volume 
of  Michelet's  history?  The  work  was  promised 
him  for  the  morrow,  before  our  departure;  and 
presently  after,  either  because  he  had  his  price, 
or  to  show  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  be  behind 
in  friendly  offices — "Eh  bien,"  he  said,  "je 
suppose  qu'il  faut  lacker  votre  camarade."  And 
he  tore  up  that  feast  of  humour,  the  unfinished 
proces-verbal.  Ah,  if  he  had  only  torn  up  instead 
the  Arethusa's  roundels!  There  were  many 
works  burnt  at  Alexandria,  there  are  many 
treasured  in  the  British  Museum,  that  I  could 
better  spare  than  the  proces-verbal  of  Chatillon. 
Poor  bubuckled  Commissary!  I  begin  to 
be  sorry  that  he  never  had  his  Michelet :  perceiv- 
ing in  him  fine  human  traits,  a  broad-based 
stupidity,  a  gusto  in  his  magisterial  functions, 
a  taste  for  letters,  a  ready  admiration  for  the 
admirable.  And  if  he  did  not  admire  the 
Arethusa,  he  was  not  alone  in  that. 

To  the  imprisoned  one,  shivering  under  the 
public  covering,  there  came  suddenly  a  noise 
of  bolts  and  chains.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  ready 
to  welcome  a  companion  in  calamity ;  and  instead 

173 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

of  that,  the  door  was  flung  wide,  the  friendly  gen- 
darme appeared  above  in  the  strong  daylight, 
and  with  a  magnificent  gesture  (being  probably 
a  student  of  the  drama) — "  Vous  etes  libre!"  he 
said.  None  too  soon  for  the  Arethusa.  I  doubt 
if  he  had  been  half  an  hour  imprisoned ;  but  by 
the  watch  in  a  man's  brain  (which  was  the  only 
watch  he  carried)  he  should  have  been  eight 
times  longer;  and  he  passed  forth  with  ecstasy 
up  the  cellar  stairs  into  the  healing  warmth  of 
the  afternoon  sun;  and  the  breath  of  the  earth 
came  as  sweet  as  a  COAV'S  into  his  nostril;  and  he 
heard  again  (and  could  have  laughed  for  pleas- 
ure) the  concord  of  delicate  noises  that  we  call 
the  hum  of  life. 

And  here  it  might  be  thought  that  my  history 
ended;  but  not  so,  this  was  an  act-drop  and  not 
the  curtain.  Upon  what  followed  in  front  of  the 
barrack,  since  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case,  I 
scruple  to  expatiate.  The  wife  of  the  Marechal- 
des-logis  was  a  handsome  woman,  and  yet  the 
Arethusa  was  not  sorry  to  be  gone  from  her 
society.  Something  of  her  image,  cool  as  a  peach 
on  that  hot  afternoon,  still  lingers  in  his  memory: 
yet  more  of  her  conversation.  "You  have  there 
a  very  fine  parlour,"  said  the  poor  gentleman. — 
"Ah,"  said  Madame  la  Marechale  (des-logis), 
"You  are  very  well  acquainted  with  such  par- 
lours!" And  you  should  have  seen  with  what  a 
hard  and  scornful  eye  she  measured  the  vaga- 
bond before  her !  I  do  not  think  he  ever  hated  the 

174 


EPILOGUE 

Commissary;  but  before  that  interview  was  at  an 
end,  he  hated  Madame  la  Marechale.  His 
passion  (as  I  am  led  to  understand  by  one  who 
was  present)  stood  confessed  in  a  burning  eye,  a 
pale  cheek,  and  a  trembling  utterance;  Madame 
meanwhile  tasting  the  joys  of  the  matador, 
goading  him  with  barbed  words  and  staring  him 
coldly  down. 

It  was  certainly  good  to  be  away  from  this 
lady,  and  better  still  to  sit  down  to  an  excellent 
dinner  in  the  inn.  Here,  too,  the  despised  trav- 
ellers scraped  acquaintance  with  their  next  neigh- 
bour, a  gentleman  of  these  parts,  returned  from 
the  day's  sport,  who  had  the  good  taste  to  find 
pleasure  in  their  society.  The  dinner  at  an  end, 
the  gentleman  proposed  the  acquaintance  should 
be  ripened  in  the  cafe. 

The  cafe  was  crowded  with  sportsmen  con- 
clamantly  explaining  to  each  other  and  the  world 
the  smallness  of  their  bags.  About  the  centre  of 
the  room,  the  Cigarette  and  the  Arethusa  sat  with 
their  new  acquaintance ;  a  trio  very  well  pleased, 
for  the  travellers  (after  their  late  experience) 
were  greedy  of  consideration,  and  their  sports- 
man rejoiced  in  a  pair  of  patient  listeners.  Sud- 
denly the  glass  door  flew  open  with  a  crash;  the 
Marechal-des-logis  appeared  in  the  interval, 
gorgeously  belted  and  befrogged,  entered  with- 
out salutation,  strode  up  the  room  with  a  clang 
of  spurs  and  weapons,  and  disappeared  through 
a  door  at  the  far  end.  Close  at  his  heels  fol- 

175 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

lowed  the  Arethusa' s  gendarme  of  the  afternoon, 
imitating,  with  a  nice  shade  of  difference,  the 
imperial  bearing  of  his  chief;  only,  as  he  passed, 
he  struck  lightly  with  his  open  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  late  captive,  and  with  that  ring- 
ing, dramatic  utterance  of  which  he  had  the 
secret — "Suivez!"  said  he. 

The  arrest  of  the  members,  the  oath  of  the 
Tennis  Court,  the  signing  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  Mark  Antony's  oration,  ah1  the 
brave  scenes  of  history,  I  conceive  as  having  been 
not  unlike  that  evening  in  the  cafe  at  Chatillon. 
Terror  breathed  upon  the  assembly.  A  moment 
later,  when  the  Arethusa  had  followed  his  re- 
captors  into  the  farther  part  of  the  house,  the 
Cigarette  found  himself  alone  with  his  coffee  in 
a  ring  of  empty  chairs  and  tables,  all  the  lusty 
sportsmen  huddled  into  corners,  ah1  their  clamor- 
ous voices  hushed  in  whispering,  all  their  eyes 
shooting  at  him  furtively  as  at  a  leper. 

And  the  Arethusa  ?  Well,  he  had  a  long,  some- 
times a  trying,  interview  in  the  back  kitchen. 
The  Marechal-des-logis,  who  was  a  very  hand- 
some man,  and  I  believe  both  intelligent  and 
honest,  had  no  clear  opinion  on  the  case.  He 
thought  the  Commissary  had  done  wrong,  but 
he  did  not  wish  to  get  his  subordinates  into 
trouble;  and  he  proposed  this,  that,  and  the 
other,  to  all  of  which  the  Arethusa  (with  a  grow- 
ing sense  of  his  position)  demurred. 

"In  short,"  suggested  the  Arethusa,  "you 
176 


EPILOGUE 

want  to  wash  your  hands  of  further  responsibil- 
ity? Well,  then,  let  me  go  to  Paris." 

The  Marechal-des-logis  looked  at  his  watch. 

"You  may  leave,"  said  he,  "by  the  ten  o'clock 
train  for  Paris." 

And  at  noon  the  next  day  the  travellers  were 
telling  their  misadventure  in  the  dining-room  at 
Siron's. 


177 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

IN  THE  CEVENNES 


A  Mountain  Town  in  France  is  a  frag- 
ment written  in  1879,  originally  intended 
to  serve  as  the  opening  chapter  of  Travels 
with  a  Donkey  in  the  Cevennes.  It  was 
first  printed  in  1896,  with  five  facsimile 
reproductions  of  pencil-landscapes  made  by 
the  author  during  his  tour. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFATORY  NOTE 183 

DEDICATION 187 

A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN  FRANCE      .      .      .189 

VELAY 

THE  DONKEY,  THE  PACK,  AND  THE 

PACK-SADDLE 207 

THE  GREEN  DONKEY-DRIVER       .      .      .  215 

I  HAVE  A  GOAD 227 

UPPER   GEVAUDAN 

A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 239 

CHEYLARD  AND  Luc 253 

OUR   LADY   OF   THE   SNOWS 

FATHER  APOLLINARIS 261 

THE  MONKS 268 

THE  BOARDERS 278 

181 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

UPPER   GEVAUDAN   (Continued) 

ACROSS  THE  GOULET 289 

A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  PINES    ....  294 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  CAMISARDS 

OVER  THE  LOZERE 303 

PONT  DE  MONTVERT 310 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN    ....  319 

FLORAC 333 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MIMENTE        .     .  337 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  COUNTRY  ....  343 

THE  LAST  DAY 353 

FAREWELL,  MODESTINE  ! 361 


182 


PREFATORY  NOTJE 

THE  two  inland  voyagers,  Louis  Stevenson  and 
Sir  Walter  Simpson,  returned  from  their  cruise 
so  greatly  refreshed  in  mind  and  body  that  it  was 
determined  to  repeat  the  experience  as  soon  as 
possible.  But,  as  time  passed,  Sir  Walter's  enthu- 
siasm waned,  and,  besides,  he  looked  askance  at  the 
idea  of  taking  the  road  on  foot  as  his  comrade  pro- 
posed. His  gait  was  very  deliberate,  with  short, 
even,  careful  steps;  so  that  he  was  soon  left  far  in  the 
rear  by  his  more  impetuous  companion,  who  forged 
ahead  in  a  manner  that  carried  him  to  his  destination 
long  before  the  arrival  of  Sir  Walter.  Walking  to- 
gether, therefore,  being  practically  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, when  the  second  expedition  started,  on  the 
23rd  of  September,  1878,  Modestine  and  her  master 
comprised  the  only  members  of  the  party. 

The  twelve  days'  tramp  through  the  Cevennes, 
though  in  some  ways  more  exhausting  than  the  canoe 
voyage,  was  more  to  the  traveller's  taste,  having  ele- 
ments 'of  romance  the  former  lacked.  To  the  end  of 
his  life  the  author  of  Treasure  Island  and  the  Child's 

183 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Garden  remained  at  heart  a  boy.  What  could  ap- 
peal more  strongly  to  the  imagination  of  a  "lantern 
bearer"  than  the  thought  of  sleeping  alone  under  the 
stars  in  a  fleecy  blue  bag,  and  breaking  his  fast  on 
bits  of  chocolate? — to  say  nothing  of  the  pistol, 
which  I  doubt  would  have  proved  a  very  efficient 
weapon  in  tune  of  need,  had  such  a  chance  occurred, 
it  being  of  an  antiquated  pattern,  uncertain  in  its 
mechanism,  and  more  likely  to  be  a  menace  than  a 
protection  to  its  owners. 

The  management  of  Modestine's  pack  must  have 
been  a  source  of  exasperation  and  perplexity  to  her 
master,  for  my  husband  was,  like  his  father  before 
him,  what  the  Scotch  call  a  "handless  man."  Neither 
of  them  could  tie  a  knot  that  would  hold,  and  the 
inventor  of  the  revolving  lights  and  countless  scien- 
tific instruments  would  find  himself  helpless  before 
the  problem  of  cording  a  trunk,  or  even  buttoning 
his  own  cuffs.  I  remember  once,  in  an  out-of-the- 
way  place,  my  husband  offering  to  carry  wood  from 
a  distant  pile  as  his  share  of  the  camp  work,  my 
sister  and  I  to  do  the  cooking.  Our  supply  of  fuel 
seeming  very  scant,  we  looked  into  the  matter  to 
find  him  plodding  wearily  back  and  forth,  fetching 
a  single  stick  at  a  tune.  He  certainly  never  attained 
"that  neat,  hurried,  bite-your-thread  effect"  that 
he  so  admired  in  Americans. 

Kegan  Paul  not  only  paid  twenty  pounds  for 
the  Travels  with  a  Donkey,  but  invited  the  author 

184 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

to  dinner,  where  the  shy  young  man  suffered  agonies 
of  embarrassment  over  the  claret  that  was  served 
to  the  guests  alone,  Mr.  Paul  being  an  abstainer 
from  principle.  Would  the  acceptance,  at  his  invi- 
tation, of  the  wine  Mr.  Paul  thought  it  wrong  to 
take,  put  Mr.  Paul  in  a  false  position?  And  yet,  on 
what  grounds  to  refuse?  This  delicate  question 
became  so  harassing  to  the  Scotch  conscience,  that, 
as  my  husband  has  told  me,  he  would  have  infinitely 
preferred  to  dine  not  at  all. 

F.  V.  DE  G.  S. 


185 


DEDICATION 

My  3ear  Sidney  Colvin, 

The  journey  which  this  little  book  if  to 
was  very  agreeable  and  fortunate  for  me.  After 
an  uncouth  beginning,  I  had  the  best  of  luck  to 
the  end.  But  we  are  all  travellers  in  what  John 
Banyan  calls  the  wilderness  of  this  world— all, 
too,  travellers  with  a  donkey;  and  the  best  that  we 
iind  in  our  travels  is  an  honest  friend.  He  is  a 
fortunate  voyager  who  finds  many.  W^e  travel, 
indeed,  to  find  them.  They  are  the  end  am)  the 
reward  of  life.  They  keep  us  worthy  of  ourselves; 
and,  when  we  are  alone,  we  are  only  nearer  to  the 
absent. 

Every  book  is,  in  an  intimate  sense,  a  circular 
letter  to  the  friends  of  him  who  writes  it.  They 
alone  take  his  meaning;  they  find  private  mes- 
sages, assurances  of  love,  and  expressions  of  grati- 
tude 'dropped  for  them  in  every  corner.  The  public 


DEDICATION 

is  but  a  generous  patron  who  defrays  the  postage. 
Yet  though  the  Letter  is  directed  to  all,  we  have 
an  old  and  kindly  custom  of  addressing  It  on  the 
outside  to  one.  Of  what  shall  a  man  be  proud,  if 
he  is  not  proud  of  his  friends?  And  so,  my  dear 
Sidney  Colvin,  it  is  with  pride  that  I  sign  myself 

Affectionately  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 


A  MOUNTAIN   TOWN   IN 
FRANCE 


E  MONASTIER  is  the  chief 
place  of  a  hilly  canton  in  Haute 
Loire,  the  ancient  Velay.  As 
the  name  betokens,  the  town  is 
of  monastic  origin;  and  it  still 
contains  a  towered  bulk  of  mon- 
astery and  a  church  of  some  architectural  pre- 
tensions, the  seat  of  an  archpriest  and  several 
vicars.  It  stands  on  the  side  of  a  hill  above  the 
river  Gazeille,  about  fifteen  miles  from  Le  Puy, 
up  a  steep  road  where  the  wolves  sometimes  pur- 
sue the  diligence  in  winter.  The  road,  which  is 
bound  for  Vivarais,  passes  through  the  town 
from  end  to  end  in  a  single  narrow  street;  there 
you  may  see  the  fountain  where  women  fill  their 
pitchers ;  there  also  some  old  houses  with  carved 
doors  and  pediments  and  ornamental  work 
in  iron. 

For  Monastier,  like  Maybole  in  Ayrshire, 
was  a  sort  of  country  capital,  where  the  local 
aristocracy  had  their  town  mansions  for  the 

189 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

winter;  and  there  is  a  certain  baron  still  alive 
and,  I  am  told,  extremely  penitent,  who  found 
means  to  ruin  himself  by  high  living  in  this 
village  on  the  hills.  He  certainly  has  claims 
to  be  considered  the  most  remarkable  spend- 
thrift on  record.  How  he  set  about  it,  in  a  place 
where  there  are  no  luxuries  for  sale,  and  where 
the  board  at  the  best  inn  comes  to  little  more 
than  a  shilling  a  day,  is  a  problem  for  the  wise. 
His  son,  ruined  as  the  family  was,  went  as  far  as 
Paris  to  sow  his  wild  oats;  and  so  the  cases  of 
father  and  son  mark  an  epoch  in  the  history 
of  centralisation  in  France.  Not  until  the 
latter  had  got  into  the  train  was  the  work  of 
Richelieu  complete. 

It  is  a  people  of  lace-makers.  The  women 
sit  in  the  streets  by  groups  of  five  or  six;  and 
the  noise  of  the  bobbins  is  audible  from  one 
group  to  another.  Now  and  then  you  will  hear 
one  woman  clattering  off  prayers  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  the  others  at  their  work.  They  wear 
gaudy  shawls,  white  caps  with  a  gay  ribbon 
about  the  head,  and  sometimes  a  black  felt 
brigand  hat  above  the  cap;  and  so  they  give 
the  street  colour  and  brightness  and  a  foreign 
air.  A  while  ago,  when  England  largely  supplied 
herself  from  this  district  with  the  lace  called 
torchon,  it  was  not  unusual  to  earn  five  francs  a 
day;  and  five  francs  in  Monastier  is  worth  a 
pound  in  London.  Now,  from  a  change  in  the 
market,  it  takes  a  clever  and  industrious  work- 

190 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN   FRANCE 

woman  to  earn  from  three  to  four  in  the  week, 
or  less  than  an  eighth  of  what  she  made  easily  a 
few  years  ago.  The  tide  of  prosperity  came  and 
went,  as  with  our  northern  pitmen,  and  left 
nobody  the  richer.  The  women  bravely  squan- 
dered their  gains,  kept  the  men  in  idleness,  and 
gave  themselves  up,  as  I  was  told,  to  sweetheart- 
ing  and  a  merry  life.  From  week's  end  to  week's 
end  it  was  one  continuous  gala  in  Monastier; 
people  spent  the  day  in  the  wine-shops,  and  the 
drum  or  the  bagpipes  led  on  the  bourrees  up 
to  ten  at  night.  Now  these  dancing  days  are 
over.  "//  n'y  a  plus  de  jeunesse"  said  Victor 
the  gargon.  I  hear  of  no  great  advance  in  what 
are  thought  the  essentials  of  morality;  but  the 
bourree,  with  its  rambling,  sweet,  interminable 
music,  and  alert  and  rustic  figures,  has  fallen 
into  disuse,  and  is  mostly  remembered  as  a 
custom  of  the  past.  Only  on  the  occasion  of 
the  fair  shall  you  hear  a  drum  discreetly  rattling 
in  a  wine-shop  or  perhaps  one  of  the  company 
singing  the  measure  while  the  others  dance.  I 
am  sorry  at  the  change,  and  marvel  once  more 
at  the  complicated  scheme  of  things  upon  this 
earth,  and  how  a  turn  of  fashion  in  England  can 
silence  so  much  mountain  merriment  in  France. 
The  lace-makers  themselves  have  not  entirely 
forgiven  our  countrywomen;  and  I  think  they 
take  a  special  pleasure  in  the  legend  of  the  north- 
ern quarter  of  the  town,  called  L'Anglade,  be- 
cause there  the  English  free-lances  were  arrested 

191 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

and  driven  back  by  the  potency  of  a  little  Virgin 
Mary  on  the  wall. 

From  time  to  time  a  market  is  held,  and  the 
town  has  a  season  of  revival;  cattle  and  pigs 
are  stabled  in  the  streets;  and  pickpockets 
have  been  known  to  come  all  the  way  from 
Lyons  for  the  occasion.  Every  Sunday  the 
country  folk  throng  in  with  daylight  to  buy 
apples,  to  attend  mass,  and  to  visit  one  of  the 
wine-shops,  of  which  there  are  no  fewer  than  fifty 
in  this  little  town.  Sunday  wear  for  the  men 
is  a  green  tailcoat  of  some  coarse  sort  of  drugget, 
and  usually  a  complete  suit  to  match.  I  have 
never  set  eyes  on  such  degrading  raiment.  Here 
it  clings,  there  bulges;  and  the  human  body, 
with  its  agreeable  and  lively  lines,  is  turned  into 
a  mockery  and  laughing-stock.  Another  piece 
of  Sunday  business  with  the  peasants  is  to  take 
their  ailments  to  the  chemist  for  advice.  It  is  as 
much  a  matter  for  Sunday  as  church-going.  I 
have  seen  a  woman  who  had  been  unable  to 
speak  since  the  Monday  before,  wheezing,  catch- 
ing her  breath,  endlessly  and  painfully  cough- 
ing; and  yet  she  had  waited  upwards  of  a 
hundred  hours  before  coming  to  seek  help,  and 
had  the  week  been  twice  as  long,  she  would  have 
waited  still.  There  was  a  canonical  day  for 
consultation;  such  was  the  ancestral  habit,  to 
which  a  respectable  lady  must  study  to  conform. 

Two  conveyances  go  daily  to  Le  Puy,  but  they 
rival  each  other  in  polite  concessions  rather  than 

192 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN   FRANCE 

in  speed.  Each  will  wait  an  hour  or  two  hours 
cheerfully  while  an  old  lady  does  her  marketing 
or  a  gentleman  finishes  the  papers  in  a  cafe.  The 
Courrier  (such  is  the  name  of  one)  should  leave 
Le  Puy  by  two  in  the  afternoon  on  the  return 
voyage,  and  arrive  at  Monastier  in  good  time 
for  a  six-o'clock  dinner.  But  the  driver  dares 
not  disoblige  his  customers.  He  will  postpone 
his  departure  again  and  again,  hour  after  hour; 
and  I  have  known  the  sun  to  go  down  on  his 
delay.  These  purely  personal  favours,  this 
consideration  of  men's  fancies,  rather  than  the 
hands  of  a  mechanical  clock,  as  marking  the 
advance  of  the  abstraction,  time,  makes  a  more 
humorous  business  of  stage-coaching  than  we 
are  used  to  see  it. 

As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  one  swelling  line 
of  hill- top  rises  and  falls  behind  another;  and 
if  you  climb  an  eminence,  it  is  only  to  see  new 
and  farther  ranges  behind  these.  Many  little 
rivers  run  from  all  sides  in  cliffy  valleys ;  and  one 
of  them,  a  few  miles  from  Monastier,  bears  the 
great  name  of  Loire.  The  mean  level  of  the 
country  is  a  little  more  than  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  which  makes  the  atmosphere 
proportionally  brisk  and  wholesome.  There  is 
little  timber  except  pines,  and  the  greater  part 
of  the  country  lies  in  moorland  pasture.  The 
country  is  wild  and  tumbled  rather  than  com- 
manding; an  upland  rather  than  a  mountain 
district;  and  the  most  striking  as  well  as  the 

193 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

most  agreeable  scenery  lies  low  beside  the  rivers. 
There,  indeed,  you  will  find  many  corners  that 
take  the  fancy;  such  as  made  the  English  noble 
choose  his  grave  by  a  Swiss  streamlet,  where 
nature  is  at  her  freshest,  and  looks  as  young  as 
on  the  seventh  morning.  Such  a  place  is  the 
course  of  the  Gazeille,  where  it  waters  the  com- 
mon of  Monastier  and  thence  downwards  till 
it  joins  the  Loire;  a  place  to  hear  birds  singing; 
a  place  for  lovers  to  frequent.  The  name  of 
the  river  was  perhaps  suggested  by  the  sound 
of  its  passage  over  the  stones;  for  it  is  a  great 
warbler,  and  at  night,  after  I  was  in  bed  at 
Monastier,  I  could  hear  it  go  singing  down  the 
valley  till  I  fell  asleep. 

On  the  whole,  this  is  a  Scottish  landscape, 
although  not  so  noble  as  the  best  in  Scotland; 
and  by  an  odd  coincidence,  the  population  is,  in 
its  way,  as  Scottish  as  the  country.  They  have 
abrupt,  uncouth,  Fifeshire  manners,  and  accost 
you,  as  if  you  were  trespassing,  with  an  "  Oust-ce 
que  vous  allez?"  only  translatable  into  the  Low- 
land "Whau'r  ye  gaun?"  They  keep  the  Scot- 
tish Sabbath.  There  is  no  labour  done  on  that 
day  but  to  drive  in  and  out  the  various  pigs 
and  sheep  and  cattle  that  make, so  pleasant  a 
tinkling  in  the  meadows.  The  lace-makers 
have  disappeared  from  the  street.  Not  to 
attend  mass  would  involve  social  degradation; 
and  you  may  find  people  reading  Sunday  books, 
in  particular  a  sort  of  Catholic  Monthly  Visitor 

194 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN   FRANCE 

on  the  doings  of  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes.  I  re- 
member one  Sunday,  when  I  was  walking  in 
the  country,  that  I  fell  on  a  hamlet  and  found 
all  the  inhabitants,  from  the  patriarch  to  the 
baby,  gathered  in  the  shadow  of  a  gable  at 
prayer.  One  strapping  lass  stood  with  her  back 
to  the  wall  and  did  the  solo  part,  the  rest  chiming 
in  devoutly.  Not  far  off,  a  lad  lay  flat  on  his 
face  asleep  among  some  straw,  to  represent  the 
worldly  element. 

Again,  this  people  is  eager  to  proselytise;  and 
the  postmaster's  daughter  used  to  argue  with 
me  by  the  half-hour  about  my  heresy,  until  she 
grew  quite  flushed.  I  have  heard  the  reverse 
process  going  on  between  a  Scotswoman  and  a 
French  girl;  and  the  arguments  in  the  two  cases 
were  identical.  Each  apostle  based  her  claim 
on  the  superior  virtue  and  attainments  of  her 
clergy,  and  clenched  the  business  with  a  threat 
of  hell-fire.  "Pas  bong  pretres  ici,"  said  the 
Presbyterian,  "bong  pretres  en  Ecosse."  And 
the  postmaster's  daughter,  taking  up  the  same 
weapon,  plied  me,  so  to  speak,  with  the  butt  of 
it  instead  of  the  bayonet.  We  are  a  hopeful 
race,  it  seems,  and  easily  persuaded  for  our  good. 
One  cheerful  circumstance  I  note  in  these  guerilla 
missions,  that  each  side  relies  on  hell,  and  Prot- 
estant and  Catholic  alike  address  themselves  to 
a  supposed  misgiving  in  their  adversary's  heart. 
And  I  call  it  cheerful,  for  faith  is  a  more  support- 
ing quality  than  imagination. 

195 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Here,  as  in  Scotland,  many  peasant  families 
boast  a  son  in  holy  orders.  And  here  also,  the 
young  men  have  a  tendency  to  emigrate.  It  is 
certainly  not  poverty  that  drives  them  to  the 
great  cities  or  across  the  seas,  for  many  peasant 
families,  I  was  told,  have  a  fortune  of  at  least 
40,000  francs.  The  lads  go  forth  pricked  with 
the  spirit  of  adventure  and  the  desire  to  rise  in 
life,  and  leave  their  homespun  elders  grumbling 
and  wondering  over  the  event.  Once,  at  a 
village  called  Laussonne,  I  met  one  of  these 
disappointed  parents :  a  drake  who  had  fathered 
a  wild  swan  and  seen  it  take  wing  and  disappear. 
The  wild  swan  in  question  was  now  an  apothe- 
cary in  Brazil.  He  had  flown  by  way  of  Bor- 
deaux, and  first  landed  in  America,  bareheaded 
and  barefoot,  and  with  a  single  halfpenny  in 
his  pocket.  And  now  he  was  an  apothecary! 
Such  a  wonderful  thing  is  an  adventurous  life! 
I  thought  he  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home; 
but  you  never  can  tell  wherein  a  man's  life  con- 
sists, nor  in  what  he  sets  his  pleasure:  one  to 
drink,  another  to  marry,  a  third  to  write  scurril- 
ous articles  and  be  repeatedly  caned  in  public, 
and  now  this  fourth,  perhaps,  to  be  an  apothe- 
cary in  Brazil.  As  for  his  old  father,  he  could 
conceive  no  reason  for  the  lad's  behaviour.  "I 
had  always  bread  for  him,"  he  said;  "he  ran 
away  to  annoy  me.  He  loved  to  annoy  me.  He 
had  no  gratitude."  But  at  heart  he  was  swelling 
with  pride  over  his  travelled  offspring;  and  he 

196 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN   FRANCE 

produced  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  where,  as  he 
said,  it  was  rotting,  a  mere  lump  of  paper  rags, 
and  waved  it  gloriously  in  the  air.  "  This  comes 
from  America,"  he  cried,  "six  thousand  leagues 
away!"  And  the  wine-shop  audience  looked 
upon  it  with  a  certain  thrill. 

I  soon  became  a  popular  figure,  and  was  known 
for  miles  in  the  country.  Ou'st-ce  que  vous  allez  ? 
was  changed  for  me  into  Quoi,  vous  rentrez  au 
Monastier  ce  soir?  and  in  the  town  itself  every 
urchin  seemed  to  know  my  name,  although  no 
living  creature  could  pronounce  it.  There  was 
one  particular  group  of  lace-makers  who  brought 
out  a  chair  for  me  whenever  I  went  by,  and  de- 
tained me  from  my  walk  to  gossip.  They  were 
filled  with  curiosity  about  England,  its  language, 
its  religion,  the  dress  of  the  women,  and  were 
never  weary  of  seeing  the  Queen's  head  on  Eng- 
lish postage-stamps  or  seeking  for  French  words 
in  English  Journals.  The  language,  in  particu- 
lar, filled  them  with  surprise. 

"Do  they  speak  patois  in  England?"  I  was 
once  asked;  and  when  I  told  them  not,  "Ah, 
then,  French?"  said  they. 

"No,  no,"  I  said,  "not  French." 

"Then,"  they  concluded,  "they  speak  patois." 

You  must  obviously  either  speak  French  or 
patois.  Talk  of  the  force  of  logic — here  it  was  in 
all  its  weakness.  I  gave  up  the  point,  but  pro- 
ceeding to  give  illustrations  of  my  native  jargon, 
I  was  met  with  a  new  mortification.  Of  all 

197 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

patois  they  declared  that  mine  was  the  most  pre- 
posterous and  the  most  jocose  in  sound.  At 
each  new  word  there  was  a  new  explosion  of 
laughter,  and  some  of  the  younger  ones  were  glad 
to  rise  from  their  chairs  and  stamp  about  the 
street  in  ecstasy;  and  I  looked  on  upon  their 
mirth  in  a  faint  and  slightly  disagreeable  be- 
wilderment. "Bread,"  which  sounds  a  com- 
monplace, plain-sailing  monosyllable  in  England, 
was  the  word  that  most  delighted  these  good 
ladies  of  Monastier;  it  seemed  to  them  frolic- 
some and  racy,  like  a  page  of  Pickwick ;  and  they 
all  got  it  carefully  by  heart,  as  a  stand-by,  I 
presume,  for  winter  evenings.  I  have  tried  it 
since  then  with  every  sort  of  accent  and  inflec- 
tion, but  I  seem  to  lack  the  sense  of  humour. 

They  were  of  all  ages:  children  at  their  first 
web  of  lace,  a  stripling  girl  with  a  bashful  but 
encouraging  play  of  eyes,  solid  married  women, 
and  grandmothers,  some  on  the  top  of  their 
age  and  some  falling  towards  decrepitude.  One 
and  all  were  pleasant  and  natural,  ready  to 
laugh  and  ready  with  a  certain  quiet  solemnity 
when  that  was  called  for  by  the  subject  of  our 
talk.  Life,  since  the  fall  in  wages,  had  begun 
to  appear  to  them  with  a  more  serious  air.  The 
stripling  girl  would  sometimes  laugh  at  me  in  a 
provocative  and  not  unadmiring  manner,  if  I 
judge  aright;  and  one  of  the  grandmothers,  who 
was  my  great  friend  of  the  party,  gave  me  many 
a  sharp  word  of  judgment  on  my  sketches,  my 

198 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN   FRANCE 

heresy,  or  even  my  arguments,  and  gave  them 
with  a  wry  mouth  and  a  humorous  twinkle  in 
her  eye  that  were  eminently  Scottish.  But  the 
rest  used  me  with  a  certain  reverence,  as  some- 
thing come  from  afar  and  not  entirely  human. 
Nothing  would  put  them  at  their  ease  but  the 
irresistible  gaiety  of  my  native  tongue.  Be- 
tween the  old  lady  and  myself  I  think  there  was 
a  real  attachment.  She  was  never  weary  of 
sitting  to  me  for  her  portrait,  in  her  best  cap 
and  brigand  hat,  and  with  all  her  wrinkles  tidily 
composed,  and  though  she  never  failed  to  repu- 
diate the  result,  she  would  always  insist  upon 
another  trial.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see 
her  sitting  in  judgment  over  the  last.  "No, 
no,"  she  would  say,  "that  is  not  it.  I  am  old, 
to  be  sure,  but  I  am  better-looking  than  that. 
We  must  try  again."  When  I  was  about  to 
leave  she  bade  me  good-bye  for  this  life  in  a 
somewhat  touching  manner.  We  should  not 
meet  again,  she  said ;  it  was  a  long  farewell,  and 
she  was  sorry.  But  life  is  so  full  of  crooks,  old 
lady,  that  who  knows?  I  have  said  good-bye 
to  people  for  greater  distances  and  times,  and, 
please  God,  I  mean  to  see  them  yet  again. 

One  thing  was  notable  about  these  women, 
from  the  youngest  to  the  oldest,  and  with  hardly 
an  exception.  In  spite  of  their  piety,  they  could 
twang  off  an  oath  with  Sir  Toby  Belch  in  person. 
There  was  nothing  so  high  or  so  low,  in  heaven 
or  earth  or  in  the  human  body,  but  a  woman  of 

199 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

this  neighbourhood  would  whip  out  the  name 
of  it,  fair  and  square,  by  way  of  conversational 
adornment.  My  landlady,  who  was  pretty  and 
young,  dressed  like  a  lady  and  avoided  patois 
like  a  weakness,  commonly  addressed  her  child 
in  the  language  of  a  drunken  bully.  And  of 
all  the  swearers  that  I  ever  heard,  commend  me 
to. an  old  lady  in  Goudet,  a  village  of  the  Loire. 
I  was  making  a  sketch,  and  her  curse  was  not 
yet  ended  when  I  had  finished  it  and  took  my 
departure.  It  is  true  she  had  a  right  to  be 
angry;  for  here  was  her  son,  a  hulking  fellow, 
visibly  the  worse  for  drink  before  the  day  was 
well  begun.  But  it  was  strange  to  hear  her  un- 
wearying flow  of  oaths  and  obscenities,  endless 
like  a  river,  and  now  and  then  rising  to  a  passion- 
ate shrillness,  in  the  clear  and  silent  air  of  the 
morning.  In  city  slums,  the  thing  might  have 
passed  unnoticed;  but  in  a  country  valley,  and 
from  a  plain  and  honest  countrywoman,  this 
beastliness  of  speech  surprised  the  ear. 

The  Conductor,  as  he  is  called,  of  Roads  and 
Bridges  was  my  principal  companion.  He  was 
generally  intelligent,  and  could  have  spoken 
more  or  less  falsetto  on  any  of  the  trite  topics; 
but  it  was  his  specialty  to  have  a  generous  taste 
in  eating.  This  was  what  was  most  indigenous 
in  the  man;  it  was  here  he  was  an  artist;  and  I 
found  in  his  company  what  I  had  long  suspected, 
that  enthusiasm  and  special  knowledge  are  the 
great  social  qualities,  and  what  they  are  about, 

200 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN   FRANCE 

whether  white  sauce  or  Shakespeare's  plays,  an 
altogether  secondary  question. 

I  used  to  accompany  the  Conductor  on  his 
professional  rounds,  and  grew  to  believe  myself 
an  expert  in  the  business.  I  thought  I  could 
make  an  entry  in  a  stone-breaker's  time-book, 
or  order  manure  off  the  wayside  with  any  liv- 
ing engineer  in  France.  Goudet  was  one  of  the 
places  we  visited  together;  and  Laussonne,  where 
I  met  the  apothecary's  father,  was  another. 
There,  at  Laussonne,  George  Sand  spent  a  day 
while  she  was  gathering  materials  for  the  "Mar- 
quis de  Villemer;"  and  I  have  spoken  with  an 
old  man,  who  was  then  a  child  running  about 
the  inn  kitchen,  ,and  who  still  remembers  her 
with  a  sort .  of  reverence.  It  appears  that  he 
spoke  French  imperfectly ;  for  this  reason  George 
Sand  chose  him  for  companion,  and  whenever 
he  let  slip  a  broad  and  picturesque  phrase  in 
patois,  she  would  make  him  repeat  it  again  and 
again  till  it  was  graven  in  her  memory.  The 
word  for  a  frog  particularly  pleased  her  fancy; 
and  it  would  be  curious  to  know  if  she  after- 
wards employed  it  in  her  works.  The  peasants, 
who  knew  nothing  of  letters  and  had  never  so 
much  as  heard  of  local  colour,  could  not  explain 
her  chattering  with  this  backward  child;  and 
to  them  she  seemed  a  very  homely  lady  and  far 
from  beautiful;  the  most  famous  man-killer 
of  the  age  appealed  so  little  to  Velaisian  swine- 
herds! 

201 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

On  my  first  engineering  excursion,  which  lay 
up  by  Crouzials  towards  Mount  Mezenc  and 
the  borders  of  Ardeche,  I  began  an  improving 
acquaintance  with  the  foreman  road-mender. 
He  was  in  great  glee  at  having  me  with  him, 
passed  me  off  among  his  subalterns  as  the  super- 
vising engineer,  and  insisted  on  what  he  called 
"the  gallantry"  of  paying  for  my  breakfast  in  a 
roadside  wine-shop.  On  the  whole,  he  was  a 
man  of  great  weather-wisdom,  some  spirits, 
and  a  social  temper.  But  I  am  afraid  he  was 
superstitious.  When  he  was  nine  years  old, 
he  had  seen  one  night  a  company  of  bourgeois 
et  dames  qui  faisaient  la  manege  avec  des  chaises, 
and  concluded  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
witches'  Sabbath.  I  suppose,  but  venture  with 
timidity  on  the  suggestion,  that  this  may  have 
been  a  romantic  and  nocturnal  picnic  party. 
Again,  coming  from  Pradelles  with  his  brother, 
they  saw  a  great  empty  cart  drawn  by  six  enor- 
mous horses  before  them  on  the  road.  The 
driver  cried  aloud  and  filled  the  mountains  with 
the  cracking  of  his  whip.  He  never  seemed  to  go 
faster  than  a  walk,  yet  it  was  impossible  to  over- 
take him;  and  at  length,  at  the  corner  of  a  hill, 
the  whole  ecniipage  disappeared  bodily  into  the 
night.  At  the  time,  people  said  it  was  the  devil 
qui  s'amusait  a  faire  ga. 

I  suggested  there  was  nothing  more  likely,  as 
he  must  have  some  amusement. 

The  foreman  said  it  was  odd,  but  there  was 
202 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN  IN  FRANCE 

less  of  that  sort  of  thing  than  formerly.  "  C'est 
difficile,"  he  added,  "a  expliquer." 

When  we  were  well  up  on  the  moors  and  the 
Conductor  was  trying  some  road-metal  with  the 
gauge- 

"Hark!"  said  the  foreman,  "do  you  hear 
nothing?" 

We  listened,  and  the  wind,  which  was  blowing 
chilly  out  of  the  east,  brought  a  faint,  tangled 
jangling  to  our  ears. 

"It  is  the  flocks  of  Vivarais,"  said  he. 

For  every  summer,  the  flocks  out  of  all  Ar- 
deche  are  brought  up  to  pasture  on  these  grassy 
plateaux. 

Here  and  there  a  little  private  flock  was  being 
tended  by  a  girl,  one  spinning  with  a  distaff, 
another  seated  on  a  wall  and  intently  making 
lace.  This  last,  when  we  addressed  her,  leaped 
up  in  a  panic  and  put  out  her  arms,  like  a  person 
swimming,  to  keep  us  at  a  distance,  and  it  was 
some  seconds  before  we  could  persuade  her  of 
the  honesty  of  our  intentions. 

The  Conductor  told  me  of  another  herdswoman 
from  whom  he  had  once  asked  his  road  while  he 
was  yet  new  to  the  country,  and  who  fled  from 
him,  driving  her  beasts  before  her,  until  he  had 
given  up  the  information  in  despair.  A  tale 
of  old  lawlessness  may  yet  be  read  in  these  un- 
couth timidities. 

The  winter  in  these  uplands  is  a  dangerous  and 
melancholy  time.  Houses  are  snowed  up,  and 

203 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

wayfarers  lost  in  a  flurry  within  hail  of  their 
own  fireside.  No  man  ventures  abroad  without 
meat  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  which  he  replenishes 
at  every  wine-shop;  and  even  thus  equipped 
he  takes  the  road  with  terror.  All  day  the 
family  sits  about  the  fire  in  a  foul  and  airless 
hovel,  and  equally  without  work  or  diversion. 
The  father  may  carve  a  rude  piece  of  furniture, 
but  that  is  all  that  will  be  done  until  the  spring 
sets  in  again,  and  along  with  it  the  labours  of 
the  field.  It  is  not  for  nothing  that  you  find  a 
clock  in  the  meanest  of  these  mountain  habita- 
tions. A  clock  and  an  almanack,  you  would 
fancy,  were  indispensable  in  such  a  life.  .  .  . 


204 


VELAY 


"Many  are  the  mighty  things,  and 
nought  is  more  mighty  than 
man.  .  .  .  He  masters  by 
his  devices  the  tenant  of  the 
fields.' ' — SOPHOCLES. 

"  Who  hath  loosed  the  bands  of  the 
wild  ass  ?  " — JOB. 


THE  DONKEY,  THE  PACK,  AND 
THE  PACK-SADDLE 

IN  a  little  place  called  Le  Monastier,  in  a 
pleasant  highland  valley  fifteen  miles  from 
Le  Puy,  I  spent  about  a  month  of  fine  days. 
Monastier  is  notable  for  the  making  of  lace,  for 
drunkenness,  for  freedom  of  language,  and  for 
unparalleled  political  dissension.  There  are  ad- 
herents of  each  of  the  four  French  parties — 
Legitimists,  Orleanists,  Imperialists,  and  Re- 
publicans— in  this  little  mountain-town;  and 
they  all  hate,  loathe,  decry,  and  calumniate  each 
other.  Except  for  business  purposes,  or  to  give 
each  other  the  lie  in  a  tavern  brawl,  they  have 
laid  aside  even  the  civility  of  speech.  'Tis  a 
mere  mountain  Poland.  In  the  midst  of  this 
Babylon  I  found  myself  a  rally  ing-point;  every 
one  was  anxious  to  be  kind  and  helpful  to  the 
stranger.  This  was  not  merely  from  the  nat- 
ural hospitality  of  mountain  people,  nor  even 
from  the  surprise  with  which  I  was  regarded  as 
a  man  living  of  his  own  free  will  in  Le  Monastier, 
when  he  might  just  as  well  have  lived  anywhere 

207 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

else  in  this  big  world;  it  arose  a  good  deal  from 
my  projected  excursion  southward  through  the 
Cevennes.  A  traveller  of  my  sort  was  a  thing 
hitherto  unheard-of  in  that  district.  I  was 
looked  upon  with  contempt,  like  a  man  who 
should  project  a  journey  to  the  moon,  but  yet 
with  a  respectful  interest,  like  one  setting  forth 
for  the  inclement  Pole.  AE  were  ready  to  help 
in  my  preparations;  a  crowd  of  sympathisers 
supported  me  at  the  critical  moment  of  a  bar- 
gain; not  a  step  was  taken  but  was  heralded  by 
glasses  round  and  celebrated  by  a  dinner  or  a 
breakfast. 

It  was  already  hard  upon  October  before  I  was 
ready  to  set  forth,  and  at  the  high  altitudes  over 
which  my  road  lay  there  was  no  Indian  summer 
to  be  looked  for.  I  was  determined,  if  not  to 
camp  out,  at  least  to  have  the  means  of  camping 
out  in  my  possession;  for  there  is  nothing  more 
harassing  to  an  easy  mind  than  the  necessity 
of  reaching  shelter  by  dusk,  and  the  hospitality 
of  a  village  inn  is  not  always  to  be  reckoned  sure 
by  those  who  trudge  on  foot.  A  tent,  above  all 
for  a  solitary  traveller,  is  troublesome  to  pitch, 
and  troublesome  to  strike  again;  and  even  on 
the  march  it  forms  a  conspicuous  feature  in  your 
baggage.  A  sleeping-sack,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  always  ready — you  have  only  to  get  into  it; 
it  serves  a  double  purpose — a  bed  by  night,  a 
portmanteau  by  day;  and  it  does  not  advertise 
your  intention  of  camping  out  to  every  curious 

208 


DONKEY,    PACK,    PACK-SADDLE 

passer-by.  This  is  a  huge  point.  If  the  camp 
is  not  secret,  it  is  but  a  troubled  resting-place; 
you  become  a  public  character;  the  convivial 
rustic  visits  your  bedside  after  an  early  supper; 
and  you  must  sleep  with  one  eye  open,  and  be 
up  before  the  day.  I  decided  on  a  sleeping-sack; 
and  after  repeated  visits  to  Le  Puy,  and  a  deal 
of  high  living  for  myself  and  my  advisers,  a 
sleeping-sack  was  designed,  constructed,  and 
triumphantly  brought  home. 

This  child  of  my  invention  was  nearly  six 
feet  square,  exclusive  of  two  triangular  flaps  to 
serve  as  a  pillow  by  night  and  as  the  top  and 
bottom  of  the  sack  by  day.  I  call  it  "  the  sack," 
but  it  was  never  a  sack  by  more  than  courtesy: 
only  a  sort  of  long  roll  or  sausage,  green  water- 
proof cart  cloth  without  and  blue  sheep's  fur 
within.  It  was  commodious  as  a  valise,  warm 
and  dry  for  a  bed.  There  was  luxurious  turning 
room  for  one;  and  at  a  pinch  the  thing  might 
serve  for  two.  I  could  bury  myself  in  it  up  to 
the  neck ;  for  my  head  I  trusted  to  a  fur  cap,  with 
a  hood  to  fold  down  over  my  ears  and  a  band  to 
pass  under  my  nose  like  a  respirator;  and  in 
case  of  heavy  rain  I  proposed  to  make  myself  a 
little  tent,  or  tentlet,  with  my  waterproof  coat, 
three  stones,  and  a  bent  branch. 

It  will  readily  be  conceived  that  I  could  not 
carry  this  huge  package  on  my  own,  merely 
human,  shoulders.  It  remained  to  choose  a 
beast  of  burden.  Now,  a  horse  is  a  fine  lady 

209 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

among  animals,  flighty,  timid,  delicate  in  eating, 
of  tender  health ;  he  is  too  valuable  and  too  res- 
tive to  be  left  alone,  so  that  you  are  chained  to 
your  brute  as  to  a  fellow  galley-slave;  a  danger- 
ous road  puts  him  out  of  his  wits ;  in  short,  he's 
an  uncertain  and  exacting  ally,  and  adds  thirty- 
fold  to  the  troubles  of  the  voyager.  What  I 
required  was  something  cheap  and  small  and 
hardy,  and  of  a  stolid  and  peaceful  temper; 
and  all  these  requisites  pointed  to  a  donkey. 

There  dwelt  an  old  man  in  Monastier,  of  rather 
unsound  intellect  according  to  some,  much 
followed  by  street-boys,  and  known  to  fame  as 
Father  Adam.  Father  Adam  had  a  cart,  and  to 
draw  the  cart  a  diminutive  she-ass,  not  much 
bigger  than  a  dog,  the  colour  of  a  mouse,  with  a 
kindly  eye  and  a  determined  under-jaw.  There 
was  something  neat  and  high-bred,  a  quakerish 
elegance,  about  the  rogue  that  hit  my  fancy  on 
the  spot.  Our  first  interview  was  in  Monastier 
market-place.  To  prove  her  good  temper,  one 
child  after  another  was  set  upon  her  back  to  ride, 
and  one  after  another  went  head  over  heels  into 
the  air;  until  a  want  of  confidence  began  to  reign 
in  youthful  bosoms,  and  the  experiment  was 
discontinued  from  a  dearth  of  subjects.  I  was 
already  backed  by  a  deputation  of  my  friends; 
but  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  all  the  buyers 
and  sellers  came  round  and  helped  me  in  the 
bargain;  and  the  ass  and  I  and  Father  Adam  were 
the  centre  of  a  hubbub  for  near  half  an  hour. 

210 


DONKEY,   PACK,    PACK-SADDLE 

At  length  she  passed  into  my  service  for  the  con- 
sideration of  sixty-five  francs  and  a  glass  of 
brandy.  The  sack  had  already  cost  eighty 
francs  and  two  glasses  of  beer;  so  that  Modestine, 
as  I  instantly  baptised  her,  was  upon  all  accounts 
the  cheaper  article.  Indeed,  that  was  as  it 
should  be;  for  she  was  only  an  appurtenance  of 
my  mattress,  or  self-acting  bedstead  on  four 
castors. 

I  had  a  last  interview  with  Father  Adam  in  a 
billiard-room  at  the  witching  hour  of  dawn,  when 
I  administered  the  brandy.  He  professed  him- 
self greatly  touched  by  the  separation,  and  de- 
clared he  had  often  bought  white  bread  for  the 
donkey  when  he  had  been  content  with  black 
bread  for  himself;  but  this,  according  to  the 
best  authorities,  must  have  been  a  flight  of  fancy. 
He  had  a  name  in  the  village  for  brutally  misus- 
ing the  ass ;  yet  it  is  certain  that  he  shed  a  tear, 
and  the  tear  made  a  clean  mark  down  one  cheek. 

By  the  advice  of  a  fallacious  local  saddler,  a 
leather  pad  was  made  for  me  with  rings  to  fasten 
on  my  bundle ;  and  I  thoughtfully  completed  my 
kit  and  arranged  my  toilette.  By  way  of  arm- 
oury and  utensils,  I  took  a  revolver,  a  little  spirit- 
lamp  and  pan,  a  lantern  and  some  halfpenny 
candles,  a  jack-knife  and  a  large  leather  flask. 
The  main  cargo  consisted  of  two  entire  changes 
of  warm  clothing — besides  my  travelling  wear 
of  country  velveteen,  pilot-coat,  and  knitted 
spencer — some  books,  and  my  railway-rug,  which, 

211 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

being  also  in  the  form  of  a  bag,  made  me  a 
double  castle  for  cold  nights.  The  permanent 
larder  was  represented  by  cakes  of  chocolate  and 
tins  of  Bologna  sausage.  All  this,  except  what 
I  carried  about  my  person,  was  easily  stowed  into 
the  sheepskin  bag;  and  by  good  fortune  I  threw 
in  my  empty  knapsack,  rather  for  convenience 
of  carriage  than  from  any  thought  that  I  should 
want  it  on  my  journey.  For  more  immediate 
needs,  I  took  a  leg  of  cold  mutton,  a  bottle  of 
Beaujolais,  an  empty  bottle  to  carry  milk,  an 
egg-beater,  and  a  considerable  quantity  of  black 
bread  and  white,  like  Father  Adam,  for  myself 
and  donkey,  only  in  my  scheme  of  things  the 
destinations  were  reversed. 

Monastrians,  of  all  shades  of  thought  in 
politics,  had  agreed  in  threatening  me  with  many 
ludicrous  misadventures,  and  with  sudden  death 
in  many  surprising  forms.  Cold,  wolves,  rob- 
bers, above  all  the  nocturnal  practical  joker, 
were  daily  and  eloquently  forced  on  my  atten- 
tion. Yet  in  these  vaticinations,  the  true, 
patent  danger  was  left  out.  Like  Christian,  it 
was  from  my  pack  I  suffered  by  the  way.  Be- 
fore telling  my  own  mishaps,  let  me,  in  two 
words,  relate  the  lesson  of  my  experience.  If 
the  pack  is  w^ell  strapped  at  the  ends,  and  hung 
at  full  length — not  doubled,  for  your  life — 
across  the  pack-saddle,  the  traveller  is  safe.  The 
saddle  will  certainly  not  fit,  such  is  the  imper- 
fection of  our  transitory  life;  it  will  assuredly 

212 


DONKEY,    PACK,    PACK-SADDLE 

topple  and  tend  to  overset;  but  there  are  stones 
on  every  roadside,  and  a  man  soon  learns  the 
art  of  correcting  any  tendency  to  overbalance 
with  a  well-adjusted  stone. 

On  the  day  of  my  departure  I  was  up  a  little 
after  five;  by  six,  we  began  to  load  the  donkey; 
and  ten  minutes  after,  my  hopes  were  in  the  dust. 
The  pad  would  not  stay  on  Modestine's  back 
for  half  a  moment.  I  returned  it  to  its  maker, 
with  whom  I  had  so  contumelious  a  passage 
that  the  street  outside  was  crowded  from  wall 
to  wall  with  gossips  looking  on  and  listening.  The 
pad  changed  hands  with  much  vivacity;  per- 
haps it  would  be  more  descriptive  to  say  that 
we  threw  it  at  each  other's  heads;  and,  at  any 
rate,  we  were  very  warm  and  unfriendly,  and 
spoke  with  a  deal  of  freedom. 

I  had  a  common  donkey  pack-saddle — a  barde, 
as  they  call  it — fitted  upon  Modestine;  and  once 
more  loaded  her  with  my  effects.  The  doubled 
sack,  my  pilot-coat  (for  it  was  warm,  and  I  was 
to  walk  in  my  waistcoat),  a  great  bar  of  black 
bread,  and  an  open  basket  containing  the  white 
bread,  the  mutton,  and  the  bottles,  were  all 
corded  together  in  a  very  elaborate  system  of 
knots,  and  I  looked  on  the  result  with  fatuous 
content.  In  such  a  monstrous  deck-cargo,  all 
poised  above  the  donkey's  shoulders,  with  noth- 
ing below  to  balance,  on  a  brand-new  pack- 
saddle  that  had  not  yet  been  worn  to  fit  the 
animal,  and  fastened  with  brand-new  girths 

213 


TRAVELS  W.ITH  A  DONKEY 

that  might  be  expected  to  stretch  and  slacken 
by  the  way,  even  a  very  careless  traveller  should 
have  seen  disaster  brewing.  That  elaborate 
system  of  knots,  again,  was  the  work  of  too  many 
sympathisers  to  be  very  artfully  designed.  It 
is  true  they  tightened  the  cords  with  a  will;  as 
many  as  three  at  a  time  would  have  a  foot 
against  Modestine's  quarters,  and  be  hauling 
with  clenched  teeth;  but  I  learned  afterwards 
that  one  thoughtful  person,  without  any  exercise 
of  force,  can  make  a  more  solid  job  than  half  a 
dozen  heated  and  enthusiastic  grooms.  I  was 
then  but  a  novice;  even  after  the  misadventure 
of  the  pad  nothing  could  disturb  my  security, 
and  I  went  forth  from  the  stable-door  as  an  ox 
goeth  to  the  slaughter. 


214 


THE    GREEN    DONKEY-DRIVER 

r  I^HE  bell  of  Monastier  was  just  striking 
A  nine  as  I  got  quit  of  these  preliminary 
troubles  and  descended  the  hill  through  the  com- 
mon. As  long  as  I  was  within  sight  of  the  win- 
dows, a  secret  shame  and  the  fear  of  some  laugh- 
able defeat  withheld  me  from  tampering  with 
Modestine.  She  tripped  along  upon  her  four 
small  hoofs  with  a  sober  daintiness  of  gait;  from 
time  to  time  she  shook  her  ears  or  her  tail;  and 
she  looked  so  small  under  the  bundle  that  my 
mind  misgave  me.  We  got  across  the  ford 
without  difficulty — there  was  no  doubt  about 
the  matter,  she  was  docility  itself — and  once  on 
the  other  bank,  where  the  road  begins  to  mount 
through  pine-woods,  I  took  in  my  right  hand  the 
unhallowed  staff,  and  with  a  quaking  spirit  ap- 
plied it  to  the  donkey.  Modestine  brisked  up 
her  pace  for  perhaps  three  steps,  and  then  re- 
lapsed into  her  former  minuet.  Another  appli- 
cation had  the  same  effect,  and  so  with  the  third. 
I  am  worthy  the  name  of  an  Englishman,  and  it 
goes  against  my  conscience  to  lay  my  hand 

215 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

rudely  on  a  female.  I  desisted,  and  looked  her 
all  over  from  head  to  foot;  the  poor  brute's 
knees  were  trembling  and  her  breathing  was  dis- 
tressed; it  was  plain  that  she  could  go  no  faster 
on  a  hill.  God  forbid,  thought  I,  that  I  should 
brutalise  this  innocent  creature;  let  her  go  at 
her  own  pace,  and  let  me  patiently  follow. 

What  that  pace  was,  there  is  no  word  mean 
enough  to  describe;  it  was  something  as  much 
slower  than  a  walk  as  a  walk  is  slower  than  a 
run;  it  kept  me  hanging  on  each  foot  for  an  in- 
credible length  of  time;  in  five  minutes  it  ex- 
hausted the  spirit  and  set  up  a  fever  in  all  the 
muscles  of  the  leg.  And  yet  I  had  to  keep  close 
at  hand  and  measure  my  advance  exactly  upon 
hers ;  for  if  I  dropped  a  few  yards  into  the  rear, 
or  went  on  a  few  yards  ahead,  Modestine  came 
instantly  to  a  halt  and  began  to  browse.  The 
thought  that  this  was  to  last  from  here  to  Alais 
nearly  broke  my  heart.  Of  all  conceivable  jour- 
neys, this  promised  to  be  the  most  tedious.  I 
tried  to  tell  myself  it  was  a  lovely  day ;  I  tried 
to  charm  my  foreboding  spirit  with  tobacco; 
but  I  had  a  vision  ever  present  to  me  of  the  long, 
long  roads,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  and  a  pair  of 
figures  ever  infinitesimally  moving,  foot  by 
foot,  a  yard  to  the  minute,  and,  like  things  en- 
chanted in  a  nightmare,  approaching  no  nearer 
to  the  goal. 

In  the  meantime  there  came  up  behind  us  a 
tall  peasant,  perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  of  an 

216 


THE   GREEN   DONKEY-DRIVER 

ironical  snuffy  countenance,  and  arrayed  in  the 
green  tail-coat  of  the  country.  He  overtook  us 
hand  over  hand,  and  stopped  to  consider  our 
pitiful  advance. 

"Your  donkey,"  says  he,  "is  very  old?" 

I  told  him,  I  believed  not. 

Then,  he  supposed,  we  had  come  far. 

I  told  him,  we  had  but  newly  left  Monastier. 

"Et  vous  marchez  comme  gal"  cried  he;  and, 
throwing  back  his  head,  he  laughed  long  and 
heartily.  I  watched  him,  half  prepared  to  feel 
offended,  until  he  had  satisfied  his  mirth;  and 
then,  "You  must  have  no  pity  on  these  animals," 
said  he;  and,  plucking  a  switch  out  of  a  thicket, 
he  began  to  lace  Modestine  about  the  stern- 
works,  uttering  a  cry.  The  rogue  pricked  up 
her  ears  and  broke  into  a  good  round  pace,  which 
she  kept  up  without  flagging,  and  without  ex- 
hibiting the  least  symptom  of  distress,  as  long 
as  the  peasant  kept  beside  us.  Her  former  pant- 
ing and  shaking  had  been,  I  regret  to  say,  a 
piece  of  comedy. 

My  deus  ex  machina,  before  he  left  me,  sup- 
plied some  excellent,  if  inhumane,  advice;  pre- 
sented me  with  the  switch,  which  he  declared  she 
would  feel  more  tenderly  than  my  cane;  and 
finally  taught  me  the  true  cry  or  masonic  word 
of  donkey-drivers,  "Proot!"  All  the  time,  he 
regarded  me  with  a  comical  incredulous  air, 
which  was  embarrassing  to  confront;  and  smiled 
over  my  donkey-driving,  as  I  might  have  smiled 

217 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

over  his  orthography,  or  his  green  tail-coat.     But 
it  was  not  my  turn  for  the  moment. 

I  was  proud  of  my  new  lore,  and  thought  I 
had  learned  the  art  to  perfection.  And  cer- 
tainly Modestine  did  wonders  for  the  rest  of  the 
forenoon,  and  I  had  a  breathing  space  to  look 
about  me.  It  was  Sabbath;  the  mountain-fields 
were  all  vacant  in  the  sunshine ;  and  as  we  came 
down  through  St.  Martin  de  Frugeres,  the  church 
was  crowded  to  the  door,  there  were  people 
kneeling  without  upon  the  steps,  and  the  sound 
of  the  priest's  chanting  came  forth  out  of  the  dim 
interior.  It  gave  me  a  home  feeling  on  the  spot ; 
for  I  am  a  countryman  of  the  Sabbath,  so  to 
speak,  and  all  Sabbath  observances,  like  a  Scotch 
accent,  strike  in  me  mixed  feelings,  grateful  and 
the  reverse.  It  is  only  a  traveller,  hurrying  by 
like  a  person  from  another  planet,  who  can 
rightly  enjoy  the  peace  and  beauty  of  the  great 
ascetic  feast.  The  sight  of  the  resting  country 
does  his  spirit  good.  There  is  something  better 
than  music  in  the  wide  unusual  silence;  and  it 
disposes  him  to  amiable  thoughts,  like  the  sound 
of  a  little  river  or  the  warmth  of  sunlight. 

In  this  pleasant  humour  I  came  down  the 
hill  to  where  Goudet  stands  in  the  green  end  of 
a  valley,  with  Chateau  Beaufort  opposite  upon 
a  rocky  steep,  and  the  stream,  as  clear  as  crystal, 
lying  in  a  deep  pool  between  them.  Above  and 
below,  you  may  hear  it  wimpling  over  the  stones, 
an  amiable  stripling  of  a  river,  which  it  seems 

218 


THE   GREEN   DONKEY-DRIVER 

absurd  to  call  the  Loire.  On  all  sides,  Goudet  is 
shut  in  by  mountains ;  rocky  footpaths,  practica- 
ble at  best  for  donkeys,  join  it  to  the  outer  world 
of  France;  and  the  men  and  women  drink  and 
swear,  in  their  green  corner,  or  look  up  at  the 
snow-clad  peaks  in  winter  from  the  threshold  of 
their  homes,  in  an  isolation,  you  would  think, 
like  that  of  Homer's  Cyclops.  But  it  is  not  so; 
the  postman  reaches  Goudet  with  the  letter-bag; 
the  aspiring  youth  of  Goudet  are  within  a  day's 
walk  of  the  railway  at  Le  Puy;  and  here  in  the 
inn  you  may  find  an  engraved  portrait  of  the 
host's  nephew,  Regis  Senac,  "Professor  of  Fenc- 
ing and  Champion  of  the  two  Americas,"  a  dis- 
tinction gained  by  him,  along  with  the  sum  of 
five  hundred  dollars,  at  Tammany  Hall,  New 
York,  on  the  10th  April,  1876. 

I  hurried  over  my  midday  meal,  and  was  early 
forth  again.  But,  alas,  as  we  climbed  the  in- 
terminable hill  upon  the  other  side,  "Proot!" 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  virtue.  I  prooted  like 
a  lion,  I  prooted  mellifluously  like  a  sucking- 
dove*  but  Modestine  would  be  neither  softened 
nor  intimidated.  She  held  doggedly  to  her  pace ; 
nothing  but  a  blow  would  move  her,  and  that 
only  for  a  second.  I  must  follow  at  her  heels, 
incessantly  belabouring.  A  moment's  pause  in 
this  ignoble  toil,  and  she  relapsed  into  her  own 
private  gait.  I  think  I  never  heard  of  any  one 
in  as  mean  a  situation.  I  must  reach  the  lake  of 
Bouchet,  where  I  meant  to  camp,  before  sun- 

219 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

down,  and,  to  have  even  a  hope  of  this,  I  must 
instantly  maltreat  this  uncomplaining  animal. 
The  sound  of  my  own  blows  sickened  me.  Once, 
when  I  looked  at  her,  she  had  a  faint  resemblance 
to  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance  who  formerly 
loaded  me  with  kindness ;  and  this  increased  my 
horror  of  my  cruelty. 

To  make  matters  worse,  we  encountered  an- 
other donkey,  ranging  at  will  upon  the  roadside ; 
and  this  other  donkey  chanced  to  be  a  gentleman. 
He  and  Modestine  met  nickering  for  joy,  and  I 
had  to  separate  the  pair  and  beat  down  their 
young  romance  with  a  renewed  and  feverish 
bastinado.  If  the  other  donkey  had  had  the 
heart  of  a  male  under  his  hide,  he  would  have 
fallen  upon  me  tooth  and  hoof;  and  this  was  a 
kind  of  consolation — he  was  plainly  unworthy 
of  Modestine's  affection.  But  the  incident  sad- 
dened me,  as  did  everything  that  spoke  of  my 
donkey's  sex. 

It  was  blazing  hot  up  the  valley,  windless,  with 
vehement  sun  upon  my  shoulders;  and  I  had  to 
labour  so  consistently  with  my  stick  that  the 
sweat  ran  into  my  eyes.  Every  five  minutes, 
too,  the  pack,  the  basket,  and  the  pilot-coat 
would  take  an  ugly  slew  to  one  side  or  the  other ; 
and  I  had  to  stop  Modestine,  just  when  I  had 
got  her  to  a  tolerable  pace  of  about  two  miles 
an  hour,  to  tug,  push,  shoulder,  and  readjust 
the  load.  And  at  last,  in  the  village  of  Ussel, 
saddle  and  all,  the  whole  hypothec  turned  round 

220 


THE    GREEN   DONKEY-DRIVER 

and  grovelled  in  the  dust  below  the  donkey's 
belly.  She,  none  better  pleased,  incontinently 
drew  up  and  seemed  to  smile;  and  a  party  of  one 
man,  two  women,  and  two  children  came  up, 
and,  standing  round  me  in  a  half-circle,  encour- 
aged her  by  their  example. 

I  had  the  devil's  own  trouble  to  get  the  thing 
righted;  and  the  instant  I  had  done  so,  without 
hesitation,  it  toppled  and  fell  down  upon  the 
other  side.  Judge  if  I  was  hot!  And  yet  not  a 
hand  was  offered  to  assist  me.  The  man,  indeed, 
told  me  I  ought  to  have  a  package  of  a  different 
shape.  I  suggested,  if  he  knew  nothing  better 
to  the  point  in  my  predicament,  he  might  hold 
his  tongue.  And  the  good-natured  dog  agreed 
with  me  smilingly.  It  was  the  most  despicable 
fix.  I  must  plainly  content  myself  with  the 
pack  for  Modestine,  and  take  the  following  items 
for  my  own  share  of  the  portage:  a  cane,  a  quart 
flask,  a  pilot-jacket  heavily  weighted  in  the 
pockets,  two  pounds  of  black  bread,  and  an 
open  basket  full  of  meats  and  bottles.  I  believe 
I  may  say  I  am  not  devoid  of  greatness  of  soul; 
for  I  did  not  recoil  from  this  infamous  burden. 
I  disposed  it,  Heaven  knows  how,  so  as  to  be 
mildly  portable,  and  then  proceeded  to  steer 
Modestine  through  the  village.  She  tried,  as 
was  indeed  her  invariable  habit,  to  enter  every 
house  and  every  courtyard  in  the  whole  length; 
and,  encumbered  as  I  was,  without  a  hand  to 
help  myself,  no  words  can  render  an  idea  of  my 

221 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

difficulties.  A  priest,  with  six  or  seven  others, 
was  examining  a  church  in  process  of  repair, 
and  he  and  his  acolytes  laughed  loudly  as  they 
saw  my  plight.  I  remembered  having  laughed 
myself  when  I  had  seen  good  men  struggling 
with  adversity  in  the  person  of  a  jackass,  and 
the  recollection  filled  me  with  penitence.  That 
was  in  my  old  light  days,  before  this  trouble  came 
upon  me.  God  knows  at  least  that  I  shall  never 
laugh  again,  thought  I.  But  Oh,  what  a  cruel 
thing  is  a  farce  to  those  engaged  in  it! 

A  little  out  of  the  village,  Modestine,  filled 
with  the  demon,  set  her  heart  upon  a  by-road, 
and  positively  refused  to  leave  it.  I  dropped 
all  my  bundles,  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  struck 
the  poor  sinner  twice  across  the  face.  It  was 
pitiful  to  see  her  lift  up  her  head  with  shut  eyes, 
as  if  waiting  for  another  blow.  I  came  very 
near  crying;  but  I  did  a  wiser  thing  than  that, 
and  sat  squarely  down  by  the  roadside  to  con- 
sider my  situation  under  the  cheerful  influence 
of  tobacco  and  a  nip  of  brandy.  Modestine,  in 
the  meanwhile,  munched  some  black  bread  with 
a  contrite,  hypocritical  air.  It  was  plain  that 
I  must  make  a  sacrifice  to  the  gods  of  shipwreck. 
I  threw  away  the  empty  bottle  destined  to  carry 
milk;  I  threw  away  my  own  white  bread,  and, 
disdaining  to  act  by  general  average,  kept  the 
black  bread  for  Modestine;  lastly,  I  threw  away 
the  cold  leg  of  mutton  and  the  egg-whisk,  al- 
though this  last  was  dear  to  my  heart.  Thus 

222 


THE   GREEN   DONKEY-DRIVER 

I  found  room  for  everything  in  the  basket,  and 
even  stowed  the  boating-coat  on  the  top.  By 
means  of  an  end  of  cord  I  slung  it  under  one 
arm;  and  although  the  cord  cut  my  shoulder, 
and  the  jacket  hung  almost  to  the  ground,  it  was 
with  a  heart  greatly  lightened  that  I  set  forth 
again. 

I  had  now  an  arm  free  to  thrash  Modestine, 
and  cruelly  I  chastised  her.  If  I  were  to  reach 
the  lakeside  before  dark,  she  must  bestir  her 
little  shanks  to  some  tune.  Already  the  sun 
had  gone  down  into  a  windy-looking  mist;  and 
although  there  were  still  a  few  streaks  of  gold 
far  off  to  the  east  on  the  hills  and  the  black  fir- 
woods,  all  was  cold  and  grey  about  our  onward 
path.  An  infinity  of  little  country  by-roads  led 
hither  and  thither  among  the  fields.  It  was  the 
most  pointless  labyrinth.  I  could  see  my  desti- 
nation overhead,  or  rather  the  peak  that  domi- 
nates it,  but  choose  as  I  pleased,  the  roads  always 
ended  by  turning  away  from  it,  and  sneaking 
back  towards  the  valley,  or  northward  along  the 
margin  of  the  hills.  The  failing  light,  the  wan- 
ing colour,  the  naked,  unhomely,  stony  country 
through  which  I  was  travelling,  threw  me  into 
some  despondency.  I  promise  you,  the  stick  was 
not  idle;  I  think  every  decent  step  that  Modestine 
took  must  have  cost  me  at  least  two  emphatic 
blows.  There  was  not  another  sound  in  the 
neighbourhood  but  that  of  my  unwearying 
bastinado. 

223 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  my  toils,  the  load 
once  more  bit  the  dust,  and,  as  by  enchantment, 
all  the  cords  were  simultaneously  loosened,  and 
the  road  scattered  with  my  dear  possessions. 
The  packing  was  to  begin  again  from  the  begin- 
ning; and  as  I  had  to  invent  a  new  and  better 
system,  I  do  not  doubt  but  I  lost  half  an  hour. 
It  began  to  be  dusk  in  earnest  as  I  reached  a 
wilderness  of  turf  and  stones.  It  had  the  air 
of  being  a  road  which  should  lead  everywhere 
at  the  same  time;  and  I  was  falling  into  some- 
thing not  unlike  despair  when  I  saw  two  figures 
stalking  towards  me  over  the  stones.  They 
walked  one  behind  the  other  like  tramps,  but 
their  pace  was  remarkable.  The  son  led  the 
way,  a  tall,  ill-made,  sombre,  Scottish-looking 
man;  the  mother  followed,  all  in  her  Sunday's 
best,  with  an  elegantly-embroidered  ribbon  to 
her  cap,  and  a  new  felt  hat  atop,  and  proffering, 
as  she  strode  along  with  kilted  petticoats,  a 
string  of  obscene  and  blasphemous  oaths. 

I  hailed  the  son  and  asked  him  my  direction. 
He  pointed  loosely  west  and  north-west,  mut- 
tered an  inaudible  comment,  and,  without 
slackening  his  pace  for  an  instant,  stalked  on,  as 
he  was  going,  right  athwart  my  path.  The 
mother  followed  without  so  much  as  raising  her 
head.  I  shouted  and  shouted  after  them,  but 
they  continued  to  scale  the  hillside,  and  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  my  outcries.  At  last,  leaving 
Modestine  by  herself,  I  was  constrained  to  run 

224 


THE   GREEN   DONKEY-DRIVER 

after  them,  hailing  the  while.  They  stopped 
as  I  drew  near,  the  mother  still  cursing;  and  I 
could  see  she  was  a  handsome,  motherly,  re- 
spectable-looking woman.  The  son  once  more 
answered  me  roughly  and  inaudibly,  and  was 
for  setting  out  again.  But  this  time  I  simply 
collared  the  mother,  who  was  nearest  me,  and, 
apologising  for  my  violence,  declared  that  I 
could  not  let  them  go  until  they  had  put  me  on 
my  road.  They  were  neither  of  them  offended 
— rather  mollified  than  otherwise ;  told  me  I  had 
only  to  follow  them ;  and  then  the  mother  asked 
me  what  I  wanted  by  the  lake  at  such  an  hour. 
I  replied,  in  the  Scottish  manner,  by  inquiring 
if  she  had  far  to  go  herself.  She  told  me,  with 
another  oath,  that  she  had  an  hour  and  a  half's 
road  before  her.  And  then,  without  salutation, 
the  pair  strode  forward  again  up  the  hillside 
in  the  gathering  dusk. 

I  returned  for  Modestine,  pushed  her  briskly 
forward,  and,  after  a  sharp  ascent  of  twenty 
minutes,  reached  the  edge  of  a  plateau.  The 
view,  looking  back  on  my  day's  journey,  was 
both  wild  and  sad.  Mount  Mezenc  and  the 
peaks  beyond  St.  Julien  stood  out  in  trenchant 
gloom  against  a  cold  glitter  in  the  east;  and  the 
intervening  field  of  hills  had  fallen  together  into 
one  broad  wash  of  shadow,  except  here  and  there 
the  outline  of  a  wooded  sugar-loaf  in  black,  here 
and  there  a  white  irregular  patch  to  represent  a 
cultivated  farm,  and  here  and  there  a  blot  where 

225 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

the  Loire,  the  Gazeille,  or  the  Lausonne  "wan- 
dered in  a  gorge. 

Soon  we  were  on  a  highroad,  and  surprise 
seized  on  my  mind  as  I  beheld  a  village  of  some 
magnitude  close  at  hand;  for  I  had  been  told 
that  the  neighbourhood  of  the  lake  was  unin- 
habited except  by  trout.  The  road  smoked  in 
the  twilight  with  children  driving  home  cattle 
from  the  fields;  and  a  pair  of  mounted  stride- 
legged  women,  hat  and  cap  and  all,  dashed  past 
me  at  a  hammering  trot  from  the  canton  where 
thev  had  been  to  church  and  market.  I  asked 

p 

one  of  the  children  where  I  was.  At  Bouchet 
St.  Nicolas,  he  told  me.  Thither,  about  a  mile 
south  of  my  destination,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  a  respectable  summit,  had  these  confused 
roads  and  treacherous  peasantry  conducted  me. 
My  shoulder  was  cut,  so  that  it  hurt  sharply; 
my  arm  ached  like  toothache  from  perpetual 
beating;  I  gave  up  the  lake  and  my  design  to 
camp,  and  asked  for  the  auberge. 


226 


I  HAVE  A  GOAD 

HPHE  auberge  of  Bouchet  St.  Nicolas  was 
JL  among  the  least  pretentious  I  have  ever 
visited;  but  I  saw  many  more  of  the  like  upon 
my  journey.  Indeed,  it  was  typical  of  these 
French  highlands.  Imagine  a  cottage  of  two 
stories,  with  a  bench  before  the  door;  the  stable 
and  kitchen  in  a  suite,  so  that  Modestine  and  I 
could  hear  each  other  dining;  furniture  of  the 
plainest,  earthen  floors,  a  single  bed-chamber 
for  travellers,  and  that  without  any  convenience 
but  beds.  In  the  kitchen  cooking  and  eating  go 
forward  side  by  side,  and  the  family  sleep  at 
night.  Any  one  who  has  a  fancy  to  wash  must 
do  so  in  public  at  the  common  table.  The 
food  is  sometimes  spare;  hard  fish  and  omelette 
have  been  my  portion  more  than  once;  the 
wine  is  of  the  smallest,  the  brandy  abominable 
to  man;  and  the  visit  of  a  fat  sow,  grouting 
under  the  table  and  rubbing  against  your  legs, 
is  no  impossible  accompaniment  to  dinner. 

But  the  people  of  the  inn,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  show  themselves  friendly  and  considerate. 
As  soon  as  you  cross  the  doors  you  cease  to  be 

227 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

a  stranger;  and  although  this  peasantry  are 
rude  and  forbidding  on  the  highway,  they  show 
a  tincture  of  kind  breeding  when  you  share  their 
hearth.  At  Bouchet,  for  instance,  I  uncorked 
my  bottle  of  Beaujolais,  and  asked  the  host  to 
join  me.  He  would  take  but  little. 

"  I  am  an  amateur  of  such  wine,  do  you  see?  " 
he  said,  "and  I  am  capable  of  leaving  you  not 
enough." 

In  these  hedge-inns  the  traveller  is  expected 
to  eat  with  his  own  knife ;  unless  he  ask,  no  other 
will  be  supplied:  with  a  glass,  a  whang  of  bread, 
and  an  iron  fork,  the  table  is  completely  laid. 
My  knife  was  cordially  admired  by  the  landlord 
of  Bouchet,  and  the^spring  filled  him  with  wonder. 

"I  should  never  have  guessed  that,"  he  said. 
"  I  would  bet,"  he  added,  weighing  it  in  his  hand, 
"that  this  cost  you  not  less  than  five  francs." 

When  I  told  him  it  cost  me  twenty,  his  jaw 
dropped. 

He  was  a  mild,  handsome,  sensible,  friendly 
old  man,  astonishingly  ignorant.  His  wife,  who 
was  not  so  pleasant  in  her  manners,  knew  how 
to  read,  although  I  do  not  suppose  she  ever  did 
so.  She  had  a  share  of  brains  and  spoke  with 
a  cutting  emphasis,  like  one  who  ruled  the 
roast. 

"My  man  knows  nothing,"  she  said,  with  an 
angry  nod;  "he  is  like  the  beasts." 

And  the  old  gentleman  signified  acquiescence 
with  his  head.  There  was  no  contempt  on  her 

228 


I  HAVE  A  GOAD 

part,  and  no  shame  on  his;  the  facts  were  ac- 
cepted loyally,  and  no  more  about  the  matter. 

I  was  tightly  cross-examined  about  my 
journey;  and  the  lady  understood  in  a  moment, 
and  sketched  out  what  I  should  put  into  my 
book  when  I  got  home.  "Whether  people 
harvest  or  not  in  such  or  such  a  place;  if  there 
were  forests;  studies  of  manners;  what,  for  ex- 
ample, I  and  the  master  of  the  house  say  to  you ; 
the  beauties  of  Nature,  and  all  that."  And  she 
interrogated  me  with  a  look. 

"It  is  just  that,"  said  I. 

"You  see,"  she  added  to  her  husband,  "I 
understood  that." 

They  were  both  much  interested  by  the  story 
of  my  misadventures. 

"In  the  morning,"  said  the  husband,  "I  will 
make  you  something  better  than  your  cane. 
Such  a  beast  as  that  feels  nothing;  it  is  in  the 
proverb — dur  comme  un  cine;  you  might  beat  her 
insensible  with  a  cudgel,  and  yet  you  would 
arrive  nowhere." 

Something  better!  I  little  knew  what  he  was 
offering. 

The  sleeping-room  was  furnished  with  two 
beds.  I  had  one;  and  I  will  own  I  was  a  little 
abashed  to  find  a  young  man  and  his  wife  and 
child  in  the  act  of  mounting  into  the  other. 
This  was  my  first  experience  of  the  sort;  and  if 
J  am  always  to  feel  equally  silly  and  extraneous, 
I  pray  God  it  be  my  last  as  well.  I  kept  my 

229 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

eyes  to  myself,  and  know  nothing  of  the  woman 
except  that  she  had  beautiful  arms,  and  seemed 
no  whit  abashed  by  my  appearance.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  situation  was  more  trying  to 
me  than  to  the  pair.  A  pair  keep  each  other  in 
countenance;  it  is  the  single  gentleman  who  has 
to  blush.  But  I  could  not  help  attributing  my 
sentiments  to  the  husband,  and  sought  to  con- 
ciliate his  tolerance  with  a  cup  of  brandy  from 
my  flask.  He  told  me  that  he  was  a  cooper  of 
Alais  travelling  to  St.  Etienne  in  search  of  work, 
and  that  in  his  spare  moments  he  followed  the 
fatal  calling  of  a  maker  of  matches.  Me  he 
readily  enough  divined  to  be  a  brandy  merchant. 

I  was  up  first  in  the  morning  (Monday,  Sep- 
tember 23d),  and  hastened  my  toilette  guiltily,  so 
as  to  leave  a  clear  field  for  madam,  the  cooper's 
wife.  I  drank  a  bowl  of  milk,  and  set  off  to  ex- 
plore the  neighbourhood  of  Bouchet.  It  was 
perishing  cold,  a  grey,  windy,  wintry  morning; 
misty  clouds  flew  fast  and  low;  the  wind  piped 
over  the  naked  platform;  and  the  only  speck  of 
colour  was  away  behind  Mount  Mezenc  and  the 
eastern  hills,  where  the  sky  still  wore  the  orange 
of  the  dawn. 

It  was  five  in  the  morning,  and  four  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea;  and  I  had  to  bury  my  hands 
in  my  pockets  and  trot.  People  were  trooping 
out  to  the  labours  of  the  field  by  twos  and  threes, 
and  all  turned  round  to  stare  upon  the  stranger. 
I  had  seen  them  coming  back  last  night,  I  saw 

230 


I  HAVE  A  GOAD 

them  going  afield  again;  and  there  was  the  life 
of  Bouchet  in  a  nutshell. 

When  I  came  back  to  the  inn  for  a  bit  of  break- 
fast, the  landlady  was  in  the  kitchen,  combing 
out  her  daughter's  hair;  and  I  made  her  my  com- 
pliments upon  its  beauty. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  mother;  "it  is  not  so  beauti- 
ful as  it  ought  to  be.  Look,  it  is  too  fine." 

Thus  does  a  wise  peasantry  console  itself  under 
adverse  physical  circumstances,  and,  by  a 
startling  democratic  process,  the  defects  of  the 
majority  decide  the  type  of  beauty. 

"And  where,"  said  I,  "is  monsieur?" 

"The  master  of  the  house  is  upstairs,"  she 
answered,  "making  you  a  goad." 

Blessed  be  the  man  who  invented  goads  I 
Blessed  the  innkeeper  of  Bouchet  St.  Nicolas,  who 
introduced  me  to  their  use!  This  plain  wand, 
with  an  eighth  of  an  inch  of  pin,  was  indeed  a 
sceptre  when  he  put  it  in  my  hands.  Thence- 
forward Modestine  was  my  slave.  A  prick,  and 
she  passed  the  most  inviting  stable-door.  A 
prick,  and  she  broke  forth  into  a  gallant  little 
trotlet  that  devoured  the  miles.  It  was  not  a 
remarkable  speed,  when  all  was  said;  and  we  took 
four  hours  to  cover  ten  miles  at  the  best  of  it. 
But  what  a  heavenly  change  since  yesterday  I 
No  more  wielding  of  the  ugly  cudgel;  no  more 
flailing  with  an  aching  arm;  no  more  broadsword 
exercise,  but  a  discreet  and  gentlemanly  fence. 
And  what  although  now  and  then  a  drop  of 

231 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

blood  should  appear  on  Modestine's  mouse- 
coloured  wedge-like  rump?  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred it  otherwise,  indeed;  but  yesterday's 
exploits  had  purged  my  heart  of  all  humanity. 
The  perverse  little  devil,  since  she  would  not  be 
taken  with  kindness,  must  even  go  with  pricking. 

It  was  bleak  and  bitter  cold,  and,  except  a 
cavalcade  of  stride-legged  ladies  and  a  pair  of 
post-runners,  the  road  was  dead  solitary  all  the 
way  to  Pradelles.  I  scarce  remember  an  incident 
but  one.  A  handsome  foal  with  a  bell  about  his 
neck  came  charging  up  to  us  upon  a  stretch  of 
common,  sniffed  the  air  martially  as  one  about 
to  do  great  deeds,  and,  suddenly  thinking  other- 
wise in  his  green  young  heart,  put  about  and 
galloped  off  as  he  had  come,  the  bell  tinkling 
in  the  wind.  For  a  long  while  afterwards  I  saw 
his  noble  attitude  as  he  drew  up,  and  heard  the 
note  of  his  bell ;  #nd  when  I  struck  the  high-road, 
the  song  of  the  telegraph-wires  seemed  to  con- 
tinue the  same  music. 

Pradelles  stands  on  a  hillside,  high  above 
the  Allier,  surrounded  by  rich  meadows.  They 
were  cutting  aftermath  on  all  sides,  which  gave 
the  neighbourhood,  this  gusty  autumn  morning, 
an  untimely  smell  of  hay.  On  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  Allier  the  land  kept  mounting  for  miles 
to  the  horizon,  a  tanned  and  sallow  autumn 
landscape,  with  black  blots  of  fir-wood  and  white 
roads  wandering  through  the  hills.  Over  all 
this  the  clouds  shed  a  uniform  and  purplish 

232 


I  HAVE  A  GOAD 

shadow,  sad  and  somewhat  menacing,  exagger- 
ating height  and  distance,  and  throwing  into 
still  higher  relief  the  twisted  ribbons  of  the  high- 
way. It  was  a  cheerless  prospect,  but  one  stim- 
ulating to  a  traveller.  For  I  was  now  upon  the 
limit  of  Velay ,  and  all  that  I  beheld  lay  in  another 
county — wild  Gevaudan,  mountainous,  unculti- 
vated, and  but  recently  disforested  from  terror 
of  the  wolves. 

Wolves,  alas,  like  bandits,  seem  to  flee  the 
traveller's  advance ;  and  you  may  trudge  through 
all  our  comfortable  Europe,  and  not  meet  with 
an  adventure  worth  the  name.  But  here,  if 
anywhere,  a  man  was  on  the  frontiers  of  hope. 
For  this  was  the  land  of  the  ever-memorable 
BEAST,  the  Napoleon  Bonaparte  of  wolves. 
What  a  career  was  his !  He  lived  ten  months  at 
free  quarters  in  Gevaudan  and  Vivarais;  he  ate 
women  and  children  and  "shepherdesses  cele- 
brated for  their  beauty";  he  pursued  armed 
horsemen;  he  has  been  seen  at  broad  noonday 
chasing  a  post-chaise  and  outrider  along  the 
king's  high-road,  and  chaise  and  outrider  fleeing 
before  him  at  the  gallop.  He  was  placarded 
like  a  political  offender,  and  ten  thousand  francs 
were  offered  for  his  head.  And  yet,  when  he 
was  shot  and  sent  to  Versailles,  behold  a  common 
wolf,  and  even  small  for  that.  "Though  I 
could  reach  from  pole  to  pole,"  sang  Alexander 
Pope ;  the  little  corporal  shook  Europe ;  and  if  all 
wolves  had  been  as  this  wolf,  they  would  have 

233 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

changed  the  history  of  man.  M.  Elie  Berthet  has 
made  him  the  hero  of  a  novel,  which  I  have  read, 
and  do  not  wish  to  read  again. 

I  hurried  over  my  lunch,  and  was  proof 
against  the  landlady's  desire  that  I  should  visit 
our  Lady  of  Pradelles,  "who  performed  many 
miracles,  although  she  was  of  wood;"  and  before 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  I  was  goading  Modes- 
tine  down  the  steep  descent  that  leads  to  Lan- 
gogne  on  the  Allier.  On  both  sides  of  the  road, 
in  big  dusty  fields,  farmers  were  preparing  for 
next  spring.  Every  fifty  yards  a  yoke  of  great- 
necked  stolid  oxen  were  patiently  haling  at  the 
plough.  I  saw  one  of  these  mild,  formidable 
servants  of  the  glebe,  who  took  a  sudden  interest 
in  Modestine  and  me.  The  furrow  down  which 
he  was  journeying  lay  at  an  angle  to  the  road, 
and  his  head  was  solidly  fixed  to  the  yoke  like 
those  of  caryatides  below  a  ponderous  cornice; 
but  he  screwed  round  his  big  honest  eyes  and 

followed   US  with   a  ruminating   look,   until  his 

master  bade  him  turn  the  plough  and  proceed 
to  re-ascend  the  field.  From  all  these  furrowing 
ploughshares,  from  the  feet  of  oxen,  from  a 
labourer  here  and  there  who  was  breaking  the 
dry  clods  with  a  hoe,  the  wind  carried  away  a 
thin  dust  like  so  much  smoke.  It  was  a  fine, 
busy,  breathing,  rustic  landscape;  and  as  I  con- 
tinued to  descend,  the  highlands  of  Gevaudan 
kept  mounting  in  front  of  me  against  the  sky. 
I  had  crossed  the  Loire  the  day  before ;  now  I 
234 


I  HAVE  A  GOAD 

was  to  cross  the  Allier;  so  near  are  these  two  con- 
fluents in  their  youth.  Just  at  the  bridge  of 
Langogne,  as  the  long-promised  rain  was  begin- 
ning to  fall,  a  lassie  of  some  seven  or  eight  ad- 
dressed me  in  the  sacramental  phrase,  "D'ou'st- 
ce-que  vous  venez?"  She  did  it  with  so  high  an 
air  that  she  set  me  laughing;  and  this  cut  her  to 
the  quick.  She  was  evidently  one  who  reckoned 
on  respect,  and  stood  looking  after  me  in  silent 
dudgeon,  as  I  crossed  the  bridge  and  entered 
the  county  of  Gevaudan. 


235 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


;  The  way  also  here  was  very  weari- 
some through  dirt  and  slabbi- 
ness:  nor  was  there  on  all  this 
ground  so  much  as  one  inn  or 
victualling-house  wherein  to  re- 
fresh the  feebler  sort." 

— PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

THE  next  day  (Tuesday,  September  24th), 
it  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before 
I  got  my  journal  written  up  and  my  knapsack 
repaired,  for  I  was  determined  to  carry  my 
knapsack  in  the  future  and  have  no  more  ado 
with  baskets;  and  half  an  hour  afterwards  I 
set  out  for  Le  Cheylard  1'Eveque,  a  place  on  the 
borders  of  the  forest  of  Mercoire.  A  man,  I  was 
told,  should  walk  there  in  an  hour  and  a  hah"; 
and  I  thought  it  scarce  too  ambitious  to  suppose 
that  a  man  encumbered  with  a  donkey  might 
cover  the  same  distance  in  four  hours. 

All  the  way  up  the  long  hill  from  Langogne  it 
rained  and  hailed  alternately;  the  wind  kept 
freshening  steadily,  although  slowly;  plentiful 
hurrying  clouds — some  dragging  veils  of  straight 
rain-shower,  others  massed  and  luminous,  as 
though  promising  snow — careered  out  of  the 
north  and  followed  me  along  my  way.  I  was 
soon  out  of  the  cultivated  basin  of  the  Allier,  and 
away  from  the  ploughing  oxen,  and  such-like 
sights  of  the  country.  Moor,  heathery  marsh, 

239 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

tracts  of  rock  and  pines,  woods  of  birch  all 
jewelled  with  the  autumn  yellow,  here  and  there 
a  few  naked  cottages  and  bleak  fields, — these 
were  the  characters  of  the  country.  Hill  and 
valley  followed  valley  and  hill;  the  little  green 
and  stony  cattle-tracks  wandered  in  and  out  of 
one  another,  split  into  three  or  four,  died  away 
in  marshy  hollows,  and  began  again  sporadically 
on  hillsides  or  at  the  borders  of  a  wood. 

There  was  no  direct  road  to  Cheylard,  and  it 
was  no  easy  affair  to  make  a  passage  in  this 
uneven  country  and  through  this  intermittent 
labyrinth  of  tracks.  It  must  have  been  about 
four  when  I  struck  Sagnerousse,  and  went  on  my 
way  rejoicing  in  a  sure  point  of  departure.  Two 
hours  afterwards,  the  dusk  rapidly  falling,  in  a 
lull  of  the  wind,  I  issued  from  a  fir-wood  where 
I  had  long  been  wandering,  and  found,  not  the 
looked-for  village,  but  another  marish  bottom 
among  rough-and-tumble  hills.  For  some  time 
past  I  had  heard  the  ringing  of  cattle-bells  ahead; 
and  now,  as  I  came  out  of  the  skirts  of  the  wood, 
I  saw  near  upon  a  dozen  cows  and  perhaps  as 
many  more  black  figures,  which  I  conjectured 
to  be  children,  although  the  mist  had  almost 
unrecognizably  exaggerated  their  forms.  These 
were  all  silently  following  each  other  round  and 
round  in  a  circle,  now  taking  hands,  now  break- 
ing up  with  chains  and  reverences.  A  dance 
of  children  appeals  to  very  innocent  and  lively 
thoughts;  but,  at  nightfall  on  the  marshes,  the 

240 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

thing  was  eerie  and  fantastic  to  behold.  Even 
I,  who  am  well  enough  read  in  Herbert  Spencer, 
felt  a  sort  of  silence  fall  for  an  instant  on  my 
mind.  The  next,  I  was  pricking  Modestine 
forward,  and  guiding  her  like  an  unruly  ship 
through  the  open.  In  a  path,  she  went  dog- 
gedly ahead  of  her  own  accord,  as  before  a  fair 
wind;  but  once  on  the  turf  or  among  heather, 
and  the  brute  became  demented.  The  tendency 
of  lost  travellers  to  go  round  in  a  circle  was  de- 
veloped in  her  to  the  degree  of  passion,  and  it 
took  all  the  steering  I  had  in  me  to  keep  even  a 
decently  straight  course  through  a  single  field. 

While  I  was  thus  desperately  tacking  through 
the  bog,  children  and  cattle  began  to  disperse, 
until  only  a  pair  of  girls  remained  behind.  From 
these  I  sought  direction  on  my  path.  The 
peasantry  in  general  were  but  little  disposed  to 
counsel  a  wayfarer.  One  old  devil  simply  re- 
tired into  his  house,  and  barricaded  the  door  on 
my  approach;  and  I  might  beat  and  shout  my- 
self hoarse,  he  turned  a  deaf  ear.  Another, 
having  given  me  a  direction  which,  as  I  found 
afterwards,  I  had  misunderstood,  complacently 
watched  me  going  wrong  without  adding  a  sign. 
He  did  not  care  a  stalk  of  parsley  if  I  wandered 
all  night  upon  the  hills!  As  for  these  two  girls, 
they  were  a  pair  of  impudent  sly  sluts,  with  not 
a  thought  but  mischief.  One  put  out  her  tongue 
at  me,  the  other  bade  me  follow  the  cows;  and 
they  both  giggled  and  jogged  each  other's  elbows. 

241 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

The  Beast  of  Gevaudan  ate  about  a  hundred 
children  of  this  district;  I  began  to  think  of 
him  with  sympathy. 

Leaving  the  girls,  I  pushed  on  through  the  bog, 
and  got  into  another  wood  and  upon  a  well- 
marked  road.  It  grew  darker  and  darker. 
Modestine,  suddenly  beginning  to  smell  mischief, 
bettered  the  pace  of  her  own  accord,  and  from 
that  time  forward  gave  me  no  trouble.  It  was 
the  first  sign  of  intelligence  I  had  occasion  to  re- 
mark in  her.  At  the  same  time,  the  wind  fresh- 
ened into  half  a  gale,  and  another  heavy  dis- 
charge of  rain  came  flying  up  out  of  the  north. 
At  the  other  side  of  the  wood  I  sighted  some  red 
windows  in  the  dusk.  This  was  the  hamlet  of 
Fouzilhic;  three  houses  on  a  hillside,  near  a  wood 
of  birches.  Here  I  found  a  delightful  old  man, 
who  came  a  little  way  with  me  in  the  rain  to  put 
me  safely  on  the  road  for  Cheylard.  He  would 
hear  of  no  reward;  but  shook  his  hands  above 
his  head  almost  as  if  in  menace,  and  refused 
volubly  and  shrilly,  in  unmitigated  patois. 

All  seemed  right  at  last.  My  thoughts  began 
to  turn  upon  dinner  and  a  fireside,  and  my  heart 
was  agreeably  softened  in  my  bosom.  Alas,  and 
I  was  on  the  brink  of  new  and  greater  miseries! 
Suddenly,  at  a  single  swoop,  the  night  fell.  I 
have  been  abroad  in  many  a  black  night,  but 
never  in  a  blacker.  A  glimmer  of  rocks,  a 
glimmer  of  the  track  where  it  was  well  beaten, 
a  certain  fleecy  density,  or  night  within  night, 

242 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

for  a  tree, — this  was  all  that  I  could  discriminate. 
The  sky  was  simply  darkness  overhead;  even 
the  flying  clouds  pursued  their  way  invisibly 
to  human  eyesight.  I  could  not  distinguish 
my  hand  at  arm's  length  from  the  track,  nor 
my  goad,  at  the  same  distance,  from  the  mead- 
ows or  the  sky. 

Soon  the  road  that  I  was  following  split,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  country,  into  three  or  four  in  a 
piece  of  rocky  meadow.  Since  Modestine  had 
shown  such  a  fancy  for  beaten  roads,  I  tried  her 
instinct  in  this  predicament.  But  the  instinct 
of  an  ass  is  what  might  be  expected  from  the 
name;  in  half  a  minute  she  was  clambering  round 
and  round  among  some  boulders,  as  lost  a  donkey 
as  you  would  wish  to  see.  I  should  have  camped 
long  before  had  I  been  properly  provided;  but 
as  this  was  to  be  so  short  a  stage,  I  had  brought 
no  wine,  no  bread  for  myself,  and  a  little  over  a 
pound  for  my  lady-friend.  Add  to  this,  that 
I  and  Modestine  were  both  handsomely  wetted 
by  the  showers.  But  now,  if  I  could  have  found 
some  water,  I  should  have  camped  at  once  in 
spite  of  all.  Water,  however,  being  entirely 
absent,  except  in  the  form  of  rain,  I  determined 
to  return  to  Fouzilhic,  and  ask  a  guide  a  little 
farther  on  my  way — "a  little  farther  lend  thy 
guiding  hand." 

The  thing  was  easy  to  decide,  hard  to  accom- 
plish. In  this  sensible  roaring  blackness  I  was 
sure  of  nothing  but  the  direction  of  the  wind. 

243 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

To  this  I  set  my  face;  the  road  had  disappeared, 
and  I  went  across  count ry,  now  in  marshy  opens, 
now  baffled  by  walls  unscalable  to  Modestine, 
until  I  came  once  more  in  sight  of  some  red 
windows.  This  time  they  were  differently  dis- 
posed. It  was  not  Fouzilhic,  but  Fouzilhac,  a 
hamlet  little  distant  from  the  other  in  space,  but 
worlds  away  in  the  spirit  of  its  inhabitants.  I 
tied  Modestine  to  a  gate,  and  groped  forward, 
stumbling  among  rocks,  plunging  midleg  in 
bog,  until  I  gained  the  entrance  of  the  village. 
In  the  first  lighted  house  there  was  a  woman 
who  would  not  open  to  me.  She  could  do  noth- 
ing, she  cried  to  me  through  the  door,  being 
alone  and  lame ;  but  if  I  would  apply  at  the  next 
house,  there  was  a  man  who  could  help  me  if 
he  had  a  mind. 

They  came  to  the  next  door  in  force,  a  man, 
two  women,  and  a  girl,  and  brought  a  pair  of 
lanterns  to  examine  the  wayfarer.  The  man 
was  not  ill-looking,  but  had  a  shifty  smile.  He 
leaned  against  the  door-post,  and  heard  me  state 
my  case.  All  I  asked  was  a  guide  as  far  as 
Cheylard. 

"C'est  que,  voyez-vous,  il  fait  noir,"  said  he. 

I  told  him  that  was  just  my  reason  for  re- 
quiring help. 

"I  understand  that,"  said  he,  looking  uncom- 
fortable; "mais — cest — de  la  peine." 

I  was  willing  to  pay,  I  said.  He  shook  his 
head.  I  rose  as  high  as  ten  francs;  but  he  con- 

244 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

tinued  to  shake  his  head.     "Name  your  own 
price,  then,"  said  I. 

"Ce  riest  pas  fa,"  he  said  at  length,  and  with 
evident  difficulty;  "but  I  am  not  going  to  cross 
the  door — mais  je  ne  soriirai  pas  de  la  porte." 

I  grew  a  little  warm,  and  asked  him  what  he 
proposed  that  I  should  do. 

"Where  are  you  going  beyond  Cheylard?" 
he  asked  by  way  of  answer. 

"That  is  no  affair  of  yours,"  I  returned,  for 
I  was  not  going  to  indulge  his  bestial  curiosity; 
"  it  changes  nothing  in  my  present  predicament.'* 

"C'est  vrai,  fa,"  he  acknowledged,  with  a 
laugh;  "out,  c'est  vrai.  Et  d'ou  venez-vous?" 

A  better  man  than  I  might  have  felt  nettled. 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "I  am  not  going  to  answer  any 
of  your  questions,  so  you  may  spare  yourself  the 
trouble  of  putting  them.  I  am  late  enough 
already;  I  want  help.  If  you  will  not  guide  me 
yourself,  at  least  help  me  to  find  some  one  else 
who  will." 

"Hold  on,"  he  cried  suddenly.  "Was  it  not 
you  who  passed  in  the  meadow  while  it  was  still 
day?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  girl,  whom  I  had  not 
hitherto  recognised;  "it  was  monsieur;  I  told 
him  to  follow  the  cow." 

"As  for  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  I,  "you  are  a 
farceuse." 

"And,"  added  the  man,  "what  the  devil  have 
you  done  to  be  still  here?  " 

245 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

What  the  devil,  indeed!    But  there  I  was. 

"The  great  thing,"  said  I,  "is  to  make  an  end 
of  it";  and  once  more  proposed  that  he  should 
help  me  to  find  a  guide. 

"C'est  que,"  he  said  again,  "c'est  que — il  fait 
noir." 

"Very  well,"  said  I;  "take  one  of  your  lan- 
terns." 

"No,"  he  cried,  drawing  a  thought  backward, 
and  again  intrenching  himself  behind  one  of 
his  former  phrases;  "I  will  not  cross  the  door." 

I  looked  at  him.  I  saw  unaffected  terror 
struggling  on  his  face  with  unaffected  shame; 
he  was  smiling  pitifully  and  wetting  his  lip  with 
his  tongue,  like  a  detected  schoolboy.  I  drew 
a  brief  picture  of  my  state,  and  asked  him  what 
I  was  to  do. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said;  "I  will  not  cross  the 
door." 

Here  was  the  Beast  of  Gevaudan,  and  no  mis- 
take. 

"Sir,"  said  I,  with  my  most  commanding 
manners,  "you  are  a  coward." 

And  with  that  I  turned  my  back  upon  the 
family  party,  who  hastened  to  retire  within 
their  fortifications;  and  the  famous  door  was 
closed  again,  but  not  till  I  had  overheard  the 
sound  of  laughter.  Filia  barbara  pater  barbarior. 
Let  me  say  it  in  the  plural:  the  Beasts  of 
Gevaudan. 

The  lanterns  had  somewhat  dazzled  me,  and  I 
246 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

ploughed  distressfully  among  stones  and  rubbish- 
heaps.  All  the  other  houses  in  the  village  were 
both  dark  and  silent;  and  though  I  knocked  at 
here  and  there  a  door,  my  knocking  was  un- 
answered. It  was  a  bad  business;  I  gave  up 
Fouzilhac  with  my  curses.  The  rain  had  stop- 
ped, and  the  wind,  which  still  kept  rising,  began 
to  dry  my  coat  and  trousers.  "Very  well," 
thought  I,  "water  or  no  water,  I  must  camp." 
But  the  first  thing  was  to  return  to  Modestine. 
I  am  pretty  sure  I  was  twenty  minutes  groping 
for  my  lady  in  the  dark;  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  unkindly  services  of  the  bog,  into  which 
I  once  more  stumbled,  I  might  have  still  been 
groping  for  her  at  the  dawn.  My  next  business 
was  to  gain  the  shelter  of  a  wood,  for  the  wind 
was  cold  as  well  as  boisterous.  How,  in  this 
well-wooded  district,  I  should  have  been  so 
long  in  finding  one,  is  another  of  the  insoluble 
mysteries  of  this  day's  adventures;  but  I  will 
take  my  oath  that  I  put  near  an  hour  to  the 
discovery. 

At  last  black  trees  began  to  show  upon  my 
left,  and,  suddenly  crossing  the  road,  made  a 
cave  of  unmitigated  blackness  right  in  front.  I 
call  it  a  cave  without  exaggeration;  to  pass  be- 
low that  arch  of  leaves  was  like  entering  a  dun- 
geon. I  felt  about  until  my  hand  encountered 
a  stout  branch,  and  to  this  I  tied  Modestine,  a 
haggard,  drenched,  desponding  donkey.  Then 
I  lowered  my  pack,  laid  it  along  the  wall  on  the 

247 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

margin  of  the  road,  and  unbuckled  the  straps.  I 
knew  well  enough  where  the  lantern  was;  but 
where  were  the  candles?  I  groped  and  groped 
among  the  tumbled  articles,  and,  while  I  was 
thus  groping,  suddenly  I  touched  the  spirit-lamp. 
Salvation!  This  would  serve  my  turn  as  well. 
The  wind  roared  unwearyingly  among  the 
trees;  I  could  hear  the  boughs  tossing  and  the 
leaves  churning  through  half  a  mile  of  forest; 
yet  the  scene  of  my  encampment  was  not  only 
as  black  as  the  pit,  but  admirably  sheltered. 
At  the  second  match  the  wick  caught  flame. 
The  light  was  both  livid  and  shifting;  but  it 
cut  me  off  from  the  universe,  and  doubled  the 
darkness  of  the  surrounding  night. 

I  tied  Modestine  more  conveniently  for  herself, 
and  broke  up  half  the  black  bread  for  her  supper, 
reserving  the  other  half  against  the  morning. 
Then  I  gathered  what  I  should  want  within  reach, 
took  off  my  wet  boots  and  gaiters,  which  I  wrap- 
ped in  my  waterproof,  arranged  my  knapsack 
for  a  pillow  under  the  flap  of  my  sleeping-bag, 
insinuated  my  limbs  into  the  interior,  and 
buckled  myself  in  like  a  bambino.  I  opened  a 
tin  of  Bologna  sausage  and  broke  a  cake  of  choco- 
late, and  that  was  all  I  had  to  eat.  It  may 
sound  offensive,  but  I  ate  them  together,  bite 
by  bite,  by  way  of  bread  and  meat.  All  I  had 
to  wash  down  this  revolting  mixture  was  neat 
brandy:  a  revolting  beverage  in  itself.  But  I 
was  rare  and  hungry;  ate  well,  and  smoked 

248 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

one  of  the  best  cigarettes  in  my  experience. 
Then  I  put  a  stone  in  my  straw  hat,  pulled  the 
flap  of  my  fur  cap  over  my  neck  and  eyes,  put 
my  revolver  ready  to  my  hand,  and  snuggled 
well  down  among  the  sheepskins. 

I  questioned  at  first  if  I  were  sleepy,  for  I  felt 
my  heart  beating  faster  than  usual,  as  if  with  an 
agreeable  excitement  to  which  my  mind  re- 
mained a  stranger.  But  as  soon  as  my  eyelids 
touched,  that  subtle  glue  leaped  between  them, 
and  they  would  no  more  come  separate. 

The  wind  among  the  trees  was  my  lullaby. 
Sometimes  it  sounded  for  minutes  together  with 
a  steady  even  rush,  not  rising  nor  abating;  and 
again  it  would  swell  and  burst  like  a  great  crash- 
ing breaker,  and  the  trees  would  patter  me  all 
over  with  big  drops  from  the  rain  of  the  after- 
noon. Night  after  night,  in  my  own  bedroom 
in  the  country,  I  have  given  ear  to  this  perturb- 
ing concert  of  the  wind  among  the  woods;  but 
whether  it  was  a  difference  in  the  trees,  or  the 
lie  of  the  ground,  or  because  I  was  myself  outside 
and  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  fact  remains  that  the 
wind  sang  to  a  different  tune  among  these  woods 
of  Gevaudan.  I  hearkened  and  hearkened ;  and 
meanwhile  sleep  took  gradual  possession  of  my 
body  and  subdued  my  thoughts  and  senses; 
but  still  my  last  waking  effort  was  to  listen  and 
distinguish,  and  my  last  conscious  state  was  one 
of  wonder  at  the  foreign  clamour  in  my  ears. 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  dark  hours — once 

249 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

when  a  stone  galled  me  underneath  the  sack, 
and  again  when  the  poor  patient  Modestine, 
growing  angry,  pawed  and  stamped  upon  the 
road — I  was  recalled  for  a  brief  while  to  con- 
sciousness, and  saw  a  star  or  two  overhead,  and 
the  lace-like  edge  of  the  foliage  against  the  sky. 
When  I  awoke  for  the  third  time  (Wednesday, 
September  25th),  the  world  was  flooded  with  a 
blue  light,  the  mother  of  the  dawn.  I  saw  the 
leaves  labouring  in  the  wind  and  the  ribbon  of 
the  road;  and,  on  turning  my  head,  there  was 
Modestine  tied  to  a  beech,  and  standing  half 
across  the  path  in  an  attitude  of  inimitable  pa- 
tience. I  closed  my  eyes  again,  and  set  to  think- 
ing over  the  experience  of  the  night.  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  how  easy  and  pleasant  it  had  been, 
even  in  this  tempestuous  weather.  The  stone 
which  annoyed  me  would  not  have  been  there, 
had  I  not  been  forced  to  camp  blindfold  in  the 
opaque  night;  and  I  had  felt  no  other  inconven- 
ience, except  when  my  feet  encountered  the 
lantern  or  the  second  volume  of  Peyrat's  Pastors 
of  the  Desert  among  the  mixed  contents  of  my 
sleeping-bag;  nay,  more,  I  had  felt  not  a  touch 
of  cold,  and  awakened  with  unusually  lightsome 
and  clear  sensations. 

With  that,  I  shook  myself,  got  once  more  into 
my  boots  and  gaiters,  and,  breaking  up  the  rest 
of  the  bread  for  Modestine,  strolled  about  to  see 
in  what  part  of  the  world  I  had  awakened. 
Ulysses,  left  on  Ithaca,  and  with  a  mind  unsettled 

250 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

by  the  goddess,  was  not  more  pleasantly  astray. 
I  have  been  after  an  adventure  all  my  life, 
a  pure  dispassionate  adventure,  such  as  befell 
early  and  heroic  voyagers;  and  thus  to  be  found 
by  morning  in  a  random  woodside  nook  in 
Gevaudan — not  knowing  north  from  south,  as 
strange  to  my  surroundings  as  the  first  man  upon 
the  earth,  an  inland  castaway — was  to  find  a 
fraction  of  my  day-dreams  realised.  I  was  on 
the  skirts  of  a  little  wood  of  birch,  sprinkled  with 
a  few  beeches;  behind,  it  adjoined  another  wood 
of  fir;  and  in  front,  it  broke  up  and  went  down 
in  open  order  into  a  shallow  and  meadowy  dale. 
All  around  there  were  bare  hill-tops,  some  near, 
some  far  away,  as  the  perspective  closed  or 
opened,  but  none  apparently  much  higher  than 
the  rest.  The  wind  huddled  the  trees.  The 
golden  specks  of  autumn  in  the  birches  tossed 
shiveringly.  Overhead  the  sky  was  full  of 
strings  and  shreds  of  vapour,  flying,  vanishing, 
reappearing,  and  turning  about  an  axis  like 
tumblers,  as  the  wind  hounded  them  through 
heaven.  It  was  wild  weather  and  famishing 
cold.  I  ate  some  chocolate,  swallowed  a  mouth- 
ful of  brandy,  and  smoked  a  cigarette  before 
the  cold  should  have  time  to  disable  my  fingers. 
And  by  the  time  I  had  got  all  this  done,  and  had 
made  my  pack  and  bound  it  on  the  pack-saddle, 
the  day  was  tiptoe  on  the  threshold  of  the  east. 
We  had  not  gone  many  steps  along  the  lane,  be- 
fore the  sun,  still  invisible  to  me,  sent  a  glow 

251 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

of  gold  over  some  cloud  mountains  that  lay 
ranged  along  the  eastern  sky. 

The  wind  had  us  on  the  stern,  and  hurried 
us  bitingly  forward.  I  buttoned  myself  into 
my  coat,  and  walked  on  in  a  pleasant  frame  of 
mind  with  all  men,  when  suddenly,  at  a  corner, 
there  was  Fouzilhic  once  more  in  front  of  me. 
Nor  only  that,  but  there  was  the  old  gentleman 
who  had  escorted  me  so  far  the  night  before, 
running  out  of  his  house  at  sight  of  me,  with 
hands  upraised  in  horror. 

"My  poor  boy  I"  he  cried,  "what  does  this 
mean?" 

I  told  him  what  had  happened.  He  beat  his 
old  hands  like  clappers  in  a  mill,  to  think  how 
lightly  he  had  let  me  go;  but  when  he  heard  of 
the  man  of  Fouzilhac,  anger  and  depression 
seized  upon  his  mind. 

"This  time,  at  least,"  said  he,  "there  shall  be 
no  mistake." 

And  he  limped  along,  for  he  was  very  rheu- 
matic, for  about  half  a  mile,  and  until  I  was  al- 
most within  sight  of  Cheylard,  the  destination 
I  had  hunted  for  so  long. 


252 


CHEYLARD  AND  LUC 

CANDIDLY,  it  seemed  little  worthy  of  all 
V_J  this  searching.  A  few  broken  ends  of 
village,  with  no  particular  street,  but  a  succes- 
sion of  open  places  heaped  with  logs  and  fagots ; 
a  couple  of  tilted  crosses,  a  shrine  to  our  Lady 
of  all  Graces  on  the  summit  of  a  little  hill ;  and 
all  this,  upon  a  rattling  highland  river,  in  the 
corner  of  a  naked  valley.  What  went  ye  out 
for  to  see?  thought  I  to  myself.  But  the  place 
had  a  life  of  its  own.  I  found  a  board  commemo- 
rating the  liberalities  of  Cheylard  for  the  past 
year,  hung  up,  like  a  banner,  in  the  diminutive 
and  tottering  church.  In  1877,  it  appeared,  the 
inhabitants  subscribed  forty-eight  francs  ten 
centimes  for  the  "Work  of  the  Propagation  of 
the  Faith."  Some  of  this,  I  could  not  help 
hoping,  would  be  applied  to  my  native  land. 
Cheylard  scrapes  together  halfpence  for  the 
darkened  souls  in  Edinburgh;  while  Balquidder 
and  Dunrossness  bemoan  the  ignorance  of 
Rome.  Thus,  to  the  high  entertainment  of  the 
angels,  do  we  pelt  each  other  with  evangelists, 
like  schoolboys  bickering  in  the  snow. 

253 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

The  inn  was  again  singularly  unpretentious. 
The  whole  furniture  of  a  not  ill-to-do  family 
was  in  the  kitchen:  the  beds,  the  cradle,  the 
clothes,  the  plate-rack,  the  meal-chest,  and  the 
photograph  of  the  parish  priest.  There  were 
five  children,  one  of  whom  was  set  to  its  morning 
prayers  at  the  stair-foot  soon  after  my  arrival, 
and  a  sixth  would  ere  long  be  forthcoming.  I 
was  kindly  received  by  these  good  folk.  They 
were  much  interested  in  my  misadventure.  The 
wood  in  which  I  had  slept  belonged  to  them, 
the  man  of  Fouzilhac  they  thought  a  monster  of 
iniquity,  and  counselled  me  warmly  to  summon 
him  at  law — " because  I  might  have  died."  The 
good  wife  was  horror-stricken  to  see  me  drink 
over  a  pint  of  uncreamed  milk. 

"You  will  do  yourself  an  evil,"  she  said. 
"Permit  me  to  boil  it  for  you." 

After  I  had  begun  the  morning  on  this  delight- 
ful liquor,  she  having  an  infinity  of  things  to 
arrange,  I  was  permitted,  nay  requested,  to  make 
a  bowl  of  chocolate  for  myself.  My  boots  and 
gaiters  were  hung  up  to  dry,  and,  seeing  me  try- 
ing to  write  my  journal  on  my  knee,  the  eldest 
daughter  let  down  a  hinged  table  in  the  chimney- 
corner  for  my  convenience.  Here  I  wrote, 
drank  my  chocolate,  and  finally  ate  an  omelette 
before  I  left.  The  table  was  thick  with  dust; 
for,  as  they  explained,  it  was  not  used  except 
in  winter  weather.  I  had  a  clear  look  up  the 
vent,  through  brown  agglomerations  of  soot 

254 


CHEYLARD  AND  LUC 

and  blue  vapour,  to  the  sky;  and  whenever 
a  handful  of  twigs  was  thrown  on  to  the  fire,  my 
legs  were  scorched  by  the  blaze. 

The  husband  had  begun  life  as  a  muleteer, 
and  when  I  came  to  charge  Modestine  showed 
himself  full  of  the  prudence  of  his  art.  "You 
will  have  to  change  this  package,"  said  he;  "it 
ought  to  be  in  two  parts,  and  then  you  might 
have  double  the  weight." 

I  explained  that  I  wanted  no  more  weight; 
and  for  no  donkey  hitherto  created  would  I  cut 
my  sleeping-bag  in  two. 

"  It  fatigues  her,  however,"  said  the  innkeeper; 
"it  fatigues  her  greatly  on  the  march.  Look." 

Alas,  there  were  her  two  forelegs  no  better 
than  raw  beef  on  the  inside,  and  blood  was  run- 
ning from  under  her  tail.  They  told  me  when 
I  left,  and  I  was  ready  to  believe  it,  that  before 
a  few  days  I  should  come  to  love  Modestine  like 
a  dog.  Three  days  had  passed,  we  had  shared 
some  misadventures,  and  my  heart  was  still  as 
cold  as  a  potato  towards  my  beast  of  burden. 
She  was  pretty  enough  to  look  at;  but  then  she 
had  given  proof  of  dead  stupidity,  redeemed 
indeed  by  patience,  but  aggravated  by  flashes 
of  sorry  and  ill-judged  light-hear tedness.  And 
I  own  this  new  discovery  seemed  another  point 
against  her.  What  the  devil  was  the  good  of  a 
she-ass  if  she  could  not  carry  a  sleeping-bag,  and 
a  few  necessaries?  I  saw  the  end  of  the  fable 
rapidly  approaching,  when  I  should  have  to 

255 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

carry  Modestine.  ^Esop  was  the  man  to  know 
the  world!  I  assure  you  I  set  out  with  heavy 
thoughts  upon  my  short  day's  march. 

It  was  not  only  heavy  thoughts  about  Modes- 
tine  that  weighted  me  upon  the  way;  it  was  a 
leaden  business  altogether.  For  first,  the  wind 
blew  so  rudely  that  I  had  to  hold  on  the  pack 
with  one  hand  from  Cheylard  to  Luc;  and  second, 
my  road  lay  through  one  of  the  most  beggarly 
countries  in  the  world.  It  was  like  the  worst  of 
the  Scottish  Highlands,  only  worse;  cold,  naked, 
and  ignoble,  scant  of  wood,  scant  of  heather, 
scant  of  life.  A  road  and  some  fences  broke 
the  unvarying  waste,  and  the  line  of  the  road 
was  marked  by  upright  pillars,  to  serve  in  time 
of  snow. 

Why  any  one  should  desire  to  visit  either  Luc 
or  Cheylard  is  more  than  my  much-inventing 
spirit  can  suppose.  For  my  part,  I  travel  not 
to  go  anywhere,  but  to  go.  I  travel  for  travel's 
sake.  The  great  affair  is  to  move;  to  feel  the 
needs  and  hitches  of  our  life  more  nearly;  to 
come  down  off  this  feather-bed  of  civilisation, 
and  find  the  globe  granite  underfoot  and  strewn 
with  cutting  flints.  Alas,  as  we  get  up  in  life, 
and  are  more  pre-occupied  with  our  affairs,  even 
a  holiday  is  a  thing  that  must  be  worked  for. 
To  hold  a  pack  upon  a  pack-saddle  against  a 
gale  out  of  the  freezing  north  is  no  high  indus- 
try, but  it  is  one  that  serves  to  occupy  and  com- 
pose the  mind.  And  when  the  present  is  so 

256 


CHEYLARD  AND  LUC 

exacting,  who  can  annoy  himself  about  the  fu- 
ture? 

I  came  out  at  length  above  the  Allier.  A  more 
unsightly  prospect  at  this  season  of  the  year 
it  would  be  hard  to  fancy.  Shelving  hills  rose 
round  it  on  all  sides,  here  dabbled  with  wood 
and  fields,  there  rising  to  peaks  alternately  naked 
and  hairy  with  pines.  The  colour  throughout 
was  black  or  ashen,  and  came  to  a  point  in  the 
ruins  of  the  castle  of  Luc,  which  pricked  up  im- 
pudently from  below  my  feet,  carrying  on  a 
pinnacle  a  tall  white  statue  of  Our  Lady,  which,  I 
heard  with  interest,  weighed  fifty  quintals,  and 
was  to  be  dedicated  on  the  6th  of  October. 
Through  this  sorry  landscape  trickled  the  Allier 
and  a  tributary  of  nearly  equal  size,  which  came 
down  to  join  it  through  a  broad  nude  valley  in 
Vivarais.  The  weather  had  somewhat  lightened, 
and  the  clouds  massed  in  squadron ;  but  the  fierce 
wind  still  hunted  them  through  heaven,  and 
cast  great  ungainly  splashes  of  shadow  and 
sunlight  over  the  scene. 

Luc  itself  was  a  straggling  double  file  of  houses 
wedged  between  hill  and  river.  It  had  no 
beauty,  nor  was  there  any  notable  feature,  save 
the  old  castle  overhead  with  its  fifty  quintals 
of  brand-new  Madonna.  But  the  inn  was  clean 
and  large.  The  kitchen,  with  its  two  box-beds 
hung  with  clean  check  curtains,  with  its  wide 
stone  chimney,  its  chimney-shelf  four  yards 
long  and  garnished  with  lanterns  and  religious 

257 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

statuettes,  its  array  of  chests  and  pair  of  ticking 
clocks,  was  the  very  model  of  what  a  kitchen 
ought  to  be;  a  melodrama  kitchen,  suitable 
for  bandits  or  noblemen  in  disguise.  Nor  was 
the  scene  disgraced  by  the  landlady,  a  handsome, 
silent,  dark  old  woman,  clothed  and  hooded  in 
black  like  a  nun.  Even  the  public  bedroom 
had  a  character  of  its  own,  with  the  long  deal 
tables  and  benches,  where  fifty  might  have  dined, 
set  out  as  for  a  harvest-home,  and  the  three  box- 
beds  along  the  wall.  In  one  of  these,  lying  on 
straw  and  covered  with  a  pair  of  table-napkins, 
did  I  do  penance  all  night  long  in  goose-flesh 
and  chattering  teeth,  and  sigh  from  time  to  time 
as  I  awakened  for  my  sheepskin  sack  and  the 
lee  of  some  great  wood. 


258 


OUR  LADY   OF  THE  SNOWS 


"I  behold 

The  House,  the  Brotherhood  austere — 
And  what  am  I,  that  I  am  here  ?  " 

— MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


FATHER  APOLLINARIS 

NEXT  morning  (Thursday,  26th  September) 
I  took  the  road  in  a  new  order.  The  sack 
was  no  longer  doubled,  but  hung  at  full  length 
across  the  saddle,  a  green  sausage  six  feet  long 
with  a  tuft  of  blue  wool  hanging  out  of  either 
end.  It  was  more  picturesque,  it  spared  the 
donkey,  and,  as  I  began  to  see,  it  would  insure 
stability,  blow  high,  blow  low.  But  it  was  not 
without  a  pang  that  I  had  so  decided.  For  al- 
though I  had  purchased  a  new  cord,  and  made 
all  as  fast  as  I  was  able,  I  was  yet  jealously 
uneasy  lest  the  flaps  should  tumble  out  and  scat- 
ter my  effects  along  the  line  of  march. 

My  way  lay  up  the  bald  valley  of  the  river, 
along  the  march  of  Vivarais  and  Gevaudan.  The 
hills  of  Gevaudan  on  the  right  were  a  little  more 
naked,  if  anything,  than  those  of  Vivarais  upon 
the  left,  and  the  former  had  a  monopoly  of  a 
low  dotty  underwood  that  grew  thickly  in  the 
gorges  and  died  out  in  solitary  burrs  upon  the 
shoulders  and  the  summits.  Black  bricks  of 
fir-wood  were  plastered  here  and  there  upon 

261 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

both  sides,  and  here  and  there  were  cultivated 
fields.  A  railway  ran  beside  the  river;  the  only 
bit  of  railway  in  Gevaudan,  although  there  are 
many  proposals  afoot  and  surveys  being  made, 
and  even,  as  they  tell  me,  a  station  standing 
ready-built  in  Mende.  A  year  or  two  hence 
and  this  may  be  another  world.  The  desert 
is  beleaguered.  Now  may  some  Languedocian 
Wordsworth  turn  the  sonnet  into  patois:  "Moun- 
tains and  vales  and  floods,  heard  YE  that 
whistle?" 

At  a  place  called  La  Bastide  I  was  directed  to 
leave  the  river,  and  follow  a  road  that  mounted 
on  the  left  among  the  hills  of  Vivarais,  the  mod- 
ern Ardeche;  for  I  was  now  come  within  a  little 
way  of  my  strange  destination,  the  Trappist  mon- 
astery of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  The  sun  came 
out  as  I  left  the  shelter  of  a  pine  wood,  and  I 
beheld  suddenly  a  fine  wild  landscape  to  the 
south.  High  rocky  hills,  as  blue  as  sapphire, 
closed  the  view,  and  between  these  lay  ridge 
upon  ridge,  heathery,  craggy,  the  sun  glittering 
on  veins  of  rock,  the  underwood  clambering  in 
the  hollows,  as  rude  as  God  made  them  at  the 
first.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  man's  hand  in 
all  the  prospect;  and  indeed  not  a  trace  of  his 
passage,  save  where  generation  after  generation 
had  walked  in  twisted  footpaths,  in  and  out 
among  the  beeches,  and  up  and  down  upon  the 
channelled  slopes.  The  mists,  which  had  hith- 
erto beset  me,  were  now  broken  into  clouds,  and 

262 


FATHER  APOLLINARIS 

fled  swiftly  and  shone  brightly  in  the  sun.  I 
drew  a  long  breath.  It  was  grateful  to  come, 
after  so  long,  upon  a  scene  of  some  attraction 
for  the  human  heart.  I  own  I  like  definite  form 
in  what  my  eyes  are  to  rest  upon;  and  if  land- 
scapes were  sold,  like  the  sheets  of  characters 
of  my  boyhood,  one  penny  plain  and  twopence 
coloured,  I  should  go  the  length  of  twopence 
every  day  of  my  life. 

But  if  things  had  grown  better  to  the  south, 
it  was  still  desolate  and  inclement  near  at  hand. 
A  spidery  cross  on  every  hill-top  marked  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  religious  house ;  and  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  beyond,  the  outlook  southward  open- 
ing out  and  growing  bolder  with  every  step,  a 
white  statue  of  the  Virgin  at  the  corner  of  a 
young  plantation  directed  the  traveller  to  Our 
Lady  of  the  Snows.  Here,  then,  I  struck  left- 
ward, and  pursued  my  way,  driving  my  secular 
donkey  before  me,  and  creaking  in  my  secular 
boots  and  gaiters,  towards  the  asylum  of  silence. 

I  had  not  gone  very  far  ere  the  wind  brought 
to  me  the  clanging  of  a  bell,  and  somehow,  I  can 
scarce  tell  why,  my  heart  sank  within  me  at  the 
sound.  I  have  rarely  approached  anything  with 
more  unaffected  terror  than  the  monastery  of 
Our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  This  it  is  to  have  had  a 
Protestant  education.  And  suddenly,  on  turn- 
ing a  corner,  fear  took  hold  on  me  from  head  to 
foot — slavish,  superstitious  fear;  and  though  I 
did  not  stop  in  my  advance,  yet  I  went  on  slowly, 

263 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

like  a  man  who  should  have  passed  a  bourne 
unnoticed,  and  strayed  into  the  country  of  the 
dead.  For  there  upon  the  narrow  new-made 
road,  between  the  stripling  pines,  was  a  mediae- 
val friar,  fighting  with  a  barrowful  of  turfs. 
Every  Sunday  of  my  childhood  I  used  to  study 
the  Hermits  of  Marco  Sadeler — enchanting  prints, 
full  of  wood  and  field  and  mediaeval  landscapes, 
as  large  as  a  county,  for  the  imagination  to  go 
a-travelling  in;  and  here,  sure  enough,  was  one 
of  Marco  Sadeler's  heroes.  He  was  robed  in 
white  like  any  spectre,  and  the  hood  falling 
back,  in  the  instancy  of  his  contention  with 
the  barrow,  disclosed  a  pate  as  bald  and  yellow 
as  a  skull.  He  might  have  been  buried  any  time 
these  thousand  years,  and  all  the  lively  parts 
of  him  resolved  into  earth  and  broken  up  with 
the  farmer's  harrow. 

I  was  troubled  besides  in  my  mind  as  to 
etiquette.  Durst  I  address  a  person  who  was 
under  a  vow  of  silence?  Clearly  not.  But 
drawing  near,  I  doffed  my  cap  to  him  with  a  far- 
away superstitious  reverence.  He  nodded  back, 
and  cheerfully  addressed  me.  Was  I  going  to 
the  monastery?  Who  was  I?  An  Englishman? 
Ah,  an  Irishman,  then? 

"No,"  I  said,  "a  Scotsman." 

A  Scotsman?  Ah,  he  had  never  seen  a  Scots- 
man before.  And  he  looked  me  all  over,  his 
good,  honest,  brawny  countenance  shining  with 
interest,  as  a  boy  might  look  upon  a  lion  or  an 

264 


FATHER  APOLLINARIS 

alligator.  From  him  I  learned  with  disgust 
that  I  could  not  be  received  at  Our  Lady  of  the 
Snows ;  I  might  get  a  meal,  perhaps,  but  that 
was  all.  And  then,  as  our  talk  ran  on,  and  it 
turned  out  that  I  was  not  a  pedlar,  but  a  liter- 
ary man,  who  drew  landscapes  and  was  going  to 
write  a  book,  he  changed  his  manner  of  thinking 
as  to  my  reception  (for  I  fear  they  respect  persons 
even  in  a  Trappist  monastery),  and  told  me  I 
must  be  sure  to  ask  for  the  Father  Prior,  and 
state  my  case  to  him  in  full.  On  second  thoughts 
he  determined  to  go  down  with  me  himself;  he 
thought  he  could  manage  for  me  better.  Might 
he  say  that  I  was  a  geographer? 

No;  I  thought,  in  the  interests  of  truth,  he 
positively  might  not. 

"Very  well,  then"  (with  disappointment), 
"an  author." 

It  appeared  he  had  been  in  a  seminary  with 
six  young  Irishmen,  all  priests,  long  since,  who 
had  received  newspapers  and  kept  him  informed 
of  the  state  of  ecclesiastical  affairs  in  England. 
And  he  asked  me  eagerly  after  Dr.  Pusey,  for 
whose  conversion  the  good  man  had  continued 
ever  since  to  pray  night  and  morning. 

"I  thought  he  was  very  near  the  truth,"  he 
said;  "and  he  will  reach  it  yet;  there  is  so  much 
virtue  in  prayer." 

He  must  be  a  stiff,  ungodly  Protestant  who 
can  take  anything  but  pleasure  in  this  kind  and 
hopeful  story.  While  he  was  thus  near  the  sub- 

265 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

ject,  the  good  father  asked  me  if  I  were  a  Chris- 
tian; and  when  he  found  I  was  not,  or  not  after 
his  way,  he  glossed  it  over  with  great  good-will. 

The  road  which  we  were  following,  and  which 
this  stalwart  father  had  made  with  his  own  two 
hands  within  the  space  of  a  year,  came  to  a 
corner,  and  showed  us  some  white  buildings,  a 
little  farther  on  beyond  the  wood.  At  the  same 
time,  the  bell  once  more  sounded  abroad.  We 
were  hard  upon  the  monastery.  Father  Apol- 
linaris  (for  that  was  my  companion's  name) 
stopped  me. 

"I  must  not  speak  to  you  down  there,"  he 
said.  "Ask  for  the  Brother  Porter,  and  all  will 
be  well.  But  try  to  see  me  as  you  go  out  again 
through  the  wood,  where  I  may  speak  to  you. 
I  am  charmed  to  have  made  your  acquaintance." 

And  then  suddenly  raising  his  arms,  flapping 
his  fingers,  and  crying  out  twice,  "I  must  not 
speak!  I  must  not  speak!"  he  ran  away  in  front 
of  me,  and  disappeared  into  the  monastery  door. 

I  own  this  somewhat  ghastly  eccentricity  went 
a  good  way  to  revive  my  terrors.  But  where 
one  was  so  good  and  simple,  why  should  not  all 
be  alike?  I  took  heart  of  grace,  and  went  for- 
ward to  the  gate  as  fast  as  Modestine,  who  seemed 
to  have  a  disaffection  for  monasteries,  would 
permit.  It  was  the  first  door,  in  my  acquain- 
tance of  her,  which  she  had  not  shown  an  inde- 
cent haste  to  enter.  I  summoned  the  place  in 
form,  though  with  a  quaking  heart.  Father 

266 


FATHER  APOLLINARIS 

Michael,  the  Father  Hospitaller,  and  a  pair  of 
brown-robed  brothers  came  to  the  gate  and 
spoke  with  me  a  while.  I  think  my  sack  was 
the  great  attraction;  it  had  already  beguiled 
the  heart  of  poor  Apollinaris,  who  had  charged 
me  on  my  life  to  show  it  to  the  Father  Prior. 
But  whether  it  was  my  address,  or  the  sack,  or 
the  idea  speedily  published  among  that  part  of 
the  brotherhood  who  attend  on  strangers  that 
I  was  not  a  pedlar  after  all,  I  found  no  difficulty 
as  to  my  reception.  Modestine  was  led  away 
by  a  layman  to  the  stables,  and  I  and  my  pack 
were  received  into  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows. 


267 


THE  MONKS 

T^ATHER  MICHAEL,  a  pleasant,  fresh-faced, 
A  smiling  man,  perhaps  of  thirty-five,  took  me 
to  the  pantry,  and  gave  me  a  glass  of  liqueur 
to  stay  me  until  dinner.  We  had  some  talk,  or 
rather  I  should  say  he  listened  to  my  prattle 
indulgently  enough,  but  with  an  abstracted 
air,  like  a  spirit  with  a  thing  of  clay.  And  truly 
when  I  remember  that  I  descanted  principally 
on  my  appetite,  and  that  it  must  have  been  by 
that  time  more  than  eighteen  hours  since  Father 
Michael  had  so  much  as  broken  bread,  I  can  well 
understand  that  he  would  find  an  earthly  savour 
in  my  conversation.  But  his  manner,  though 
superior,  was  exquisitely  gracious;  and  I  find 
I  have  a  lurking  curiosity  as  to  Father  Michael's 
past. 

The  whet  administered,  I  was  left  alone  for  a 
little  in  the  monastery  garden.  This  is  no  more 
than  the  main  court,  laid  out  in  sandy  paths  and 
beds  of  parti-coloured  dahlias,  and  with  a 
fountain  and  a  black  statue  of  the  Virgin  in 
the  centre.  The  buildings  stand  around  it 
four-square,  bleak,  as  yet  unseasoned  by  the 

268 


THE  MONKS 

years  and  weather,  and  with  no  other  features 
than  a  belfry  and  a  pair  of  slated  gables.  Broth- 
ers in  white,  brothers  in  brown,  passed  silently 
along  the  sanded  alleys ;  and  when  I  first  came 
out,  three  hooded  monks  were  kneeling  on  the 
terrace  at  their  prayers.  A  naked  hill  com- 
mands the  monastery  upon  one  side,  and  the 
wood  commands  it  on  the  other.  It  lies  exposed 
to  wind ;  the  snow  falls  off  and  on  from  October 
to  May,  and  sometimes  lies  six  weeks  on  end; 
but  if  they  stood  in  Eden,  with  a  climate  like 
heaven's,  the  buildings  themselves  would  offer 
the  same  wintry  and  cheerless  aspect;  and  for 
my  part,  on  this  wild  September  day,  before  I 
was  called  to  dinner,  I  felt  chilly  in  and  out. 

When  I  had  eaten  well  and  heartily,  Brother 
Ambrose,  a  hearty  conversable  Frenchman  (for 
all  those  who  wait  on  strangers  have  the  liberty 
to  speak),  led  me  to  a  little  room  in  that  part  of 
the  building  which  is  set  apart  for  MM.  les 
retraitants.  It  was  clean  and  whitewashed, 
and  furnished  with  strict  necessaries,  a  crucifix, 
a  bust  of  the  late  Pope,  the  Imitation  in  French, 
a  book  of  religious  meditations,  and  the  Life  of 
Elizabeth  Seton — evangelist,  it  would  appear,  of 
North  America  and  of  New  England  in  particular. 
As  far  as  my  experience  goes,  there  is  a  fair  field 
for  some  more  evangelisation  in  these  quarters; 
but  think  of  Cotton  Mather!  I  should  like  to 
give  him  a  reading  of  this  little  work  in  heaven, 
where  I  hope  he  dwells;  but  perhaps  he  knows 

269 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

all  that  already,  and  much  more;  and  perhaps 
he  and  Mrs.  Seton  are  the  dearest  friends,  and 
gladly  unite  their  voices  in  the  everlasting  psalm. 
Over  the  table,  to  conclude  the  inventory  of  the 
room,  hung  a  set  of  regulations  for  MM.  les 
retraitants:  what  services  they  should  attend, 
when  they  were  to  tell  their  beads  or  meditate, 
and  when  they  were  to  rise  and  go  to  rest.  At 
the  foot  was  a  notable  N.  B.:  "Le  temps  libre 
est  employe  a  I'examen  de  conscience,  a  la  con- 
fession, a  faire  de  bonnes  resolutions,"  etc.  To 
make  good  resolutions,  indeed!  You  might 
talk  as  fruitfully  of  making  the  hair  grow  on 
your  head. 

I  had  scarce  explored  my  niche  when  Brother 
Ambrose  returned.  An  English  boarder,  it  ap- 
peared, would  like  to  speak  with  me.  I  pro- 
fessed my  willingness,  and  the  friar  ushered  in  a 
fresh,  young,  little  Irishman  of  fifty,  a  deacon  of 
the  Church,  arrayed  in  strict  canonicals,  and 
wearing  on  his  head  what,  in  default  of  knowledge, 
I  can  only  call  the  ecclesiastical  shako.  He  had 
lived  seven  years  in  retreat  at  a  convent  of  nuns 
in  Belgium,  and  now  five  at  Our  Lady  of  the 
Snows;  he  never  saw  an  English  newspaper; 
he  spoke  French  imperfectly,  and  had  he  spoken 
it  like  a  native,  there  was  not  much  chance  of 
conversation  where  he  dwelt.  With  this,  he 
was  a  man  eminently  sociable,  greedy  of  news, 
and  simple-minded  like  a  child.  If  I  was  pleased 
to  have  a  guide  about  the  monastery,  he  was  no 

270 


THE  MONKS 

less  delighted  to  see  an  English  face  and  hear 
an  English  tongue. 

He  showed  me  his  own  room,  where  he  passed 
his  time  among  breviaries,  Hebrew  Bibles,  and 
the  Waverley  novels.  Thence  he  led  me  to  the 
cloisters,  into  the  chapter-house,  through  the 
vestry,  where  the  brothers'  gowns  and  broad 
straw  hats  were  hanging  up,  each  with  his  religi- 
ous name  upon  a  board, — names  full  of  legen- 
dary suavity  and  interest,  such  as  Basil,  Hilar- 
ion,  Raphael,  or  Pacifique;  into  the  library, 
where  were  all  the  works  of  Veuillot  and  Chateau- 
briand, and  the  Odes  et  Ballades,  if  you  please, 
and  even  Moliere,  to  say  nothing  of  innumerable 
fathers  and  a  great  variety  of  local  and  general 
historians.  Thence  my  good  Irishman  took  me 
round  the  workshops,  where  brothers  bake  bread, 
and  make  cartwheels,  and  take  photographs; 
where  one  superintends  a  collection  of  curiosities, 
and  another  a  gallery  of  rabbits.  For  in  a  Trap- 
pist  monastery  each  monk  has  an  occupation 
of  his  own  choice,  apart  from  his  religious  duties 
and  the  general  labours  of  the  house.  Each 
must  sing  in  the  choir,  if  he  has  a  voice  and  ear, 
and  join  in  the  haymaking  if  he  has  a  hand  to 
stir;  but  in  his  private  hours,  although  he  must 
be  occupied,  he  may  be  occupied  on  what  he 
likes.  Thus  I  was  told  that  one  brother  was 
engaged  with  literature;  while  Father  Apolli- 
naris  busies  himself  in  making  roads,  and  the 
Abbot  employs  himself  in  binding  books.  It  is 

271 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

not  so  long  since  this  Abbot  was  consecrated,  by 
the  way;  and  on  that  occasion,  by  a  special 
grace,  his  mother  was  permitted  to  enter  the 
chapel  and  witness  the  ceremony  of  consecration. 
A  proud  day  for  her  to  have  a  son  a  mitred  abbot ; 
it  makes  you  glad  to  think  they  let  her  in. 

In  all  these  journey  ings  to  and  fro,  many 
silent  fathers  and  brethren  fell  in  our  way. 
Usually  they  paid  no  more  regard  to  our  passage 
than  if  we  had  been  a  cloud ;  but  sometimes  the 
good  deacon  had  a  permission  to  ask  of  them, 
and  it  was  granted  by  a  peculiar  movement  of 
the  hands,  almost  like  that  of  a  dog's  paws  in 
swimming,  or  refused  by  the  usual  negative  signs, 
and  in  either  case  with  lowered  eyelids  and  a 
certain  air  of  contrition,  as  of  a  man  who  was 
steering  very  close  to  evil. 

The  monks,  by  special  grace  of  their  Abbot, 
were  still  taking  two  meals  a  day ;  but  it  was  al- 
ready time  for  their  grand  fast,  which  begins 
somewhere  in  September  and  lasts  till  Easter, 
and  during  which  they  eat  but  once  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  that  at  two  in  the  afternoon, 
twelve  hours  after  they  have  begun  the  toil  and 
vigil  of  the  day.  Their  meals  are  scanty,  but 
even  of  these  they  eat  sparingly;  and  though 
each  is  allowed  a  small  carafe  of  wine,  many 
refrain  from  this  indulgence.  Without  doubt, 
the  most  of  mankind  grossly  over-eat  themselves ; 
our  meals  serve  not  only  for  support,  but  as 
a  hearty  and  natural  diversion  from  the  labour 

272 


THE  MONKS 

of  life.  Although  excess  may  be  hurtful,  I 
should  have  thought  this  Trappist  regimen  de- 
fective. And  I  am  astonished,  as  I  look  back, 
at  the  freshness  of  face  and  cheerfulness  of  man- 
ner of  all  whom  I  beheld.  A  happier  nor  a 
healthier  company  I  should  scarce  suppose  that 
I  have  ever  seen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  on  this 
bleak  upland,  and  with  the  incessant  occupation 
of  the  monks,  life  is  of  an  uncertain  tenure,  and 
death  no  infrequent  visitor,  at  Our  Lady  of  the 
Snows.  This,  at  least,  was  what  was  told  me. 
But  if  they  die  easily,  they  must  live  healthily 
in  the  meantime,  for  they  seemed  all  firm  of 
flesh  and  high  in  colour;  and  the  only  morbid 
sign  that  I  could  observe,  an  unusual  brilliancy 
of  eye,  was  one  that  served  rather  to  increase 
the  general  impression  of  vivacity  and  strength. 
Those  with  whom  I  spoke  were  singularly 
sweet-tempered,  with  what  I  can  only  call  a  holy 
cheerfulness  in  air  and  conversation.  There 
is  a  note,  in  the  direction  to  visitors,  telling  them 
not  to  be  offended  at  the  curt  speech  of  those 
who  wait  upon  them,  since  it  is  proper  to  monks 
to  speak  little.  The  note  might  have  been 
spared;  to  a  man  the  hospitallers  were  all  brim- 
ming with  innocent  talk,  and,  in  my  experience 
of  the  monastery,  it  was  easier  to  begin  than  to 
break  off  a  conversation.  With  the  exception 
of  Father  Michael,  who  was  a  man  of  the  world, 
they  showed  themselves  full  of  kind  and  healthy 
interest  in  all  sorts  of  subjects — in  politics,  in 

273 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

voyages,  in  my  sleeping-sack — and  not  without 
a  certain  pleasure  in  the  sound  of  their  own 
voices. 

As  for  those  who  are  restricted  to  silence,  I 
can  only  wonder  how  they  bear  their  solemn 
and  cheerless  isolation.  And  yet,  apart  from 
any  view  of  mortification,  I  can  see  a  certain 
policy,  not  only  in  the  exclusion  of  women,  but 
in  this  vow  of  silence.  I  have  had  some  experi- 
ence of  lay  phalansteries,  of  an  artistic,  not  to 
say  a  bacchanalian,  character;  and  seen  more 
than  one  association  easily  formed  and  yet  more 
easily  dispersed.  With  a  Cistercian  rule,  per- 
haps they  might  have  lasted  longer.  In  the 
neighbourhood  of  women  it  is  but  a  touch-and-go 
association  that  can  be  formed  among  defence- 
less men;  the  stronger  electricity  is  sure  to 
triumph;  the  dreams  of  boyhood,  the  schemes 
of  youth,  are  abandoned  after  an  interview  of 
ten  minutes,  and  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  pro- 
fessional male  jollity,  deserted  at  once  for  two 
sweet  eyes  and  a  caressing  accent.  And  next 
after  this,  the  tongue  is  the  great  divider. 

I  am  almost  ashamed  to  pursue  this  worldly 
criticism  of  a  religious  rule;  but  there  is  yet  an- 
other point  in  which  the  Trappist  order  appeals 
to  me  as  a  model  of  wisdom.  By  two  in  the 
morning  the  clapper  goes  upon  the  bell,  and  so 
on,  hour  by  hour,  and  sometimes  quarter  by 
quarter,  till  eight,  the  hour  of  rest ;  so  infinitesi- 
mally  is  the  day  divided  among  different  occupa- 

274 


THE  MONKS 

tions.  The  man  who  keeps  rabbits,  for  example, 
hurries  from  his  hutches  to  the  chapel,  the 
chapter-room,  or  the  refectory,  all  day  long: 
every  hour  he  has  an  office  to  sing,  a  duty  to  per- 
form; from  two,  when  he  rises  in  the  dark,  till 
eight,  when  he  returns  to  receive  the  comforta- 
ble gift  of  sleep,  he  is  upon  his  feet  and  occupied 
with  manifold  and  changing  business.  I  know 
many  persons,  worth  several  thousands  in  the 
year,  who  are  not  so  fortunate  in  the  disposal 
of  their  lives.  Into  how  many  houses  would 
not  the  note  of  the  monastery  bell,  dividing 
the  day  into  manageable  portions,  bring  peace 
of  mind  and  healthful  activity  of  body?  We 
speak  of  hardships,  but  the  true  hardship  is  to 
be  a  dull  fool,  and  permitted  to  mismanage  life 
in  our  own  dull  and  foolish  manner. 

From  this  point  of  view,  we  may  perhaps 
better  understand  the  monk's  existence.  A  long 
novitiate,  and  every  proof  of  constancy  of  mind 
and  strength  of  body  is  required  before  admis- 
sion to  the  order;  but  I  could  not  find  that  many 
were  discouraged.  In  the  photographer's  studio, 
which  figures  so  strangely  among  the  outbuild- 
ings, my  eye  was  attracted  by  the  portrait  of 
a  young  fellow  in  the  uniform  of  a  private  of 
foot.  This  was  one  of  the  novices,  who  came  of 
the  age  for  service,  and  marched  and  drilled  and 
mounted  guard  for  the  proper  time  among  the 
garrison  of  Algiers.  Here  was  a  man  who  had 
surely  seen  both  sides  of  life  before  deciding; 

275 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

yet  as  soon  as  he  was  set  free  from  service  he 
returned  to  finish  his  novitiate. 

This  austere  rule  entitles  a  man  to  heaven  as 
by  right.  When  the  Trappist  sickens,  he  quits 
not  his  habit;  he  lies  in  the  bed  of  death  as  he 
has  prayed  and  laboured  in  his  frugal  and  silent 
existence;  and  when  the  Liberator  comes,  at 
the  very  moment,  even  before  they  have  carried 
him  in  his  robe  to  he  his  little  last  in  the  chapel 
among  continual  chantings,  joy-bells  break  forth, 
as  if  for  a  marriage,  from  the  slated  belfry,  and 
proclaim  throughout  the  neighbourhood  that 
another  soul  has  gone  to  God. 

At  night,  under  the  conduct  of  my  kind  Irish- 
man, I  took  my  place  in  the  gallery  to  hear  com- 
pline and  Salve  Regina,  with  which  the  Cister- 
cians bring  every  day  to  a  conclusion.  There 
were  none  of  those  circumstances  which  strike 
the  Protestant  as  childish  or  as  tawdry  in  the 
public  offices  of  Rome.  A  stern  simplicity, 
heightened  by  the  romance  of  the  surroundings, 
spoke  directly  to  the  heart.  I  recall  the  white- 
washed chapel,  the  hooded  figures  in  the  choir, 
the  lights  alternately  occluded  and  revealed, 
the  strong  manly  singing,  the  silence  that  en- 
sued, the  sight  of  cowled  heads  bowed  in  prayer, 
and  then  the  clear  trenchant  beating  of  the  bell, 
breaking  in  to  show  that  the  last  office  was  over 
and  the  hour  of  sleep  had  come;  and  when  I 
remember,  I  am  not  surprised  that  I  made  my 
escape  into  the  court  with  somewhat  whirling 

276 


THE  MONKS 

fancies,  and  stood  like  a  man  bewildered  in  the 
windy  starry  night. 

But  I  was  weary ;  and  when  I  had  quieted  my 
spirits  with  Elizabeth  Seton's  memoirs — a  dull 
work — the  cold  and  the  raving  of  the  wind 
among  the  pines  (for  my  room  was  on  that  side 
of  the  monastery  which  adjoins  the  woods)  dis- 
posed me  readily  to  slumber.  I  was  wakened 
at  black  midnight,  as  it  seemed,  though  it  was 
really  two  in  the  morning,  by  the  first  stroke 
upon  the  bell.  All  the  brothers  were  then 
hurrying  to  the  chapel;  the  dead  in  life,  at  this 
untimely  hour,  were  already  beginning  the  un- 
comforted  labours  of  their  day.  The  dead  in 
life — there  was  a  chill  reflection.  And  the 
words  of  a  French  song  came  back  into  my 
memory,  telling  of  the  best  of  our  mixed  exist- 
ence:— 

"Que  t'as  de  belles  filles, 

Girofle! 

Girofla! 

Que  t'as  de  belles  filles, 
U Amour   les  complera!" 

And  I  blessed  God  that  I  was  free  to  wander, 
free  to  hope,  and  free  to  love. 


277 


THE  BOARDERS 

BUT  there  was  another  side  to  my  residence 
at  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  At  this  late 
season  there  were  not  many  boarders;  and  yet 
I  was  not  alone  in  the  public  part  of  the  mon- 
astery. This  itself  is  hard  by  the  gate,  with  a 
small  dining-room  on  the  ground-floor,  and  a 
whole  corridor  of  cells  similar  to  mine  upstairs. 
I  have  stupidly  forgotten  the  board  for  a  regular 
retraitant;  but  it  was  somewhere  between  three 
and  five  francs  a  day,  and  I  think  most  prob- 
ably the  first.  Chance  visitors  like  myself 
might  give  what  they  chose  as  a  free-will  offer- 
ing, but  nothing  was  demanded.  I  may  men- 
tion that  when  I  was  going  away,  Father  Michael 
refused  twenty  francs  as  excessive.  I  explained 
the  reasoning  which  led  me  to  offer  him  so  much ; 
but  even  then,  from  a  curious  point  of  honour, 
he  would  not  accept  it  with  his  own  hand.  "I 
have  no  right  to  refuse  for  the  monastery," 
he  explained,  "but  I  should  prefer  if  you  would 
give  it  to  one  of  the  brothers." 

I  had  dined  alone,  because  I  arrived  late;  but 
278 


THE  BOARDERS 

at  supper  I  found  two  other  guests.  One  was 
a  country  parish  priest,  who  had  walked  over  that 
morning  from  the  seat  of  his  cure  near  Mende 
to  enjoy  four  days  of  solitude  and  prayer.  He 
was  a  grenadier  in  person,  with  the  hale  colour 
and  circular  wrinkles  of  a  peasant;  and  as  he 
complained  much  of  how  he  had  been  impeded 
by  his  skirts  upon  the  march,  I  have  a  vivid 
fancy  portrait  of  him,  striding  along,  upright, 
big-boned,  with  kilted  cassock,  through  the  bleak 
hills  of  Gevaudan.  The  other  was  a  short,  griz- 
zling, thick-set  man,  from  forty-five  to  fifty, 
dressed  in  tweed  with  a  knitted  spencer,  and  the 
red  ribbon  of  a  decoration  in  his  button-hole. 
This  last  was  a  hard  person  to  classify.  He  was 
an  old  soldier,  who  had  seen  service  and  risen 
to  the  rank  of  commandant;  and  he  retained 
some  of  the  brisk  decisive  manners  of  the  camp. 
On  the  other  hand,  as  soon  as  his  resignation 
was  accepted,  he  had  come  to  Our  Lady  of  the 
Snows  as  a  boarder,  and  after  a  brief  experience 
of  its  ways,  had  decided  to  remain  as  a  novice. 
Already  the  new  life  was  beginning  to  modify 
his  appearance;  already  he  had  acquired  some- 
what of  the  quiet  and  smiling  air  of  the  brethren; 
and  he  was  yet  neither  an  officer  nor  a  Trappist, 
but  partook  of  the  character  of  each.  And  cer- 
tainly here  was  a  man  in  an  interesting  nick  of 
life.  Out  of  the  noise  of  cannon  and  trumpets, 
he  was  in  the  act  of  passing  into  this  still  coun- 
try bordering  on  the  grave,  where  men  sleep 

279 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

nightly  in  their  grave-clothes,  and,  like  phantoms, 
communicate  by  signs. 

At  supper  we  talked  politics.  I  make  it  my 
business,  when  I  am  in  France,  to  preach  political 
good-will  and  moderation,  and  to  dwell  on  the 
example  of  Poland,  much  as  some  alarmists  in 
England  dwell  on  the  example  of  Carthage.  The 
priest  and  the  commandant  assured  me  of  their 
sympathy  with  ah1 1  said,  and  made  a  heavy  sigh- 
ing over  the  bitterness  of  contemporary  feeling. 

"Why,  you  cannot  say  anything  to  a  man  with 
which  he  does  not  absolutely  agree,"  said  I,  "but 
he  flies  up  at  you  in  a  temper." 

They  both  declared  that  such  a  state  of  things 
was  antichristian. 

While  we  were  thus  agreeing,  what  should  my 
tongue  stumble  upon  but  a  word  in  praise  of 
Gambetta's  moderation.  The  old  soldier's  coun- 
tenance was  instantly  suffused  with  blood;  with 
the  palms  of  his  hands  he  beat  the  table  like  a 
naughty  child. 

"Comment,  monsieur?"  he  shouted.  "Com- 
ment? Gambetta  moderate?  Will  you  dare  to 
justify  these  words?" 

But  the  priest  had  not  forgotten  the  tenor 
of  our  talk.  And  suddenly,  in  the  height  of  his 
fury,  the  old  soldier  found  a  warning  look  di- 
rected on  his  face ;  the  absurdity  of  his  behaviour 
was  brought  home  to  him  in  a  flash;  and  the 
storm  came  to  an  abrupt  end,  without  another 
word. 

280 


THE  BOARDERS 

It  was  only  in  the  morning,  over  our  coffee 
(Friday,  September  27th),  that  this  couple  found 
out  I  was  a  heretic.  I  suppose  I  had  misled 
them  by  some  admiring  expressions  as  to  the 
monastic  life  around  us;  and  it  was  only  by  a 
point-blank  question  that  the  truth  came  out. 
I  had  been  tolerantly  used,  both  by  simple 
Father  Apollinaris  and  astute  Father  Michael; 
and  the  good  Irish  deacon,  when  he  heard  of  my 
religious  weakness,  had  only  patted  me  upon  the 
shoulder  and  said,  "You  must  be  a  Catholic 
and  come  to  heaven."  But  I  was  now  among  a 
different  sect  of  orthodox.  These  two  men  were 
bitter  and  upright  and  narrow,  like  the  worst  of 
Scotsmen,  and  indeed,  upon  my  heart,  I  fancy 
they  were  worse.  The  priest  snorted  aloud  like 
a  battle-horse. 

"Et  vous  pretendez  mourir  dans  cette  espece 
de  croyance?"  he  demanded;  and  there  is  no  type 
used  by  mortal  printers  large  enough  to  qualify 
his  accent. 

I  humbly  indicated  that  I  had  no  design  of 
changing. 

But  he  could  not  away  with  such  a  monstrous 
attitude.  "No,  no,"  he  cried,  "you  must 
change.  You  have  come  here,  God  has  led 
you  here,  and  you  must  embrace  the  opportu- 
nity." 

I  made  a  slip  in  policy;  I  appealed  to  the 
family  affections,  though  I  was  speaking  to  a 
priest  and  a  soldier,  two  classes  of  men  circum- 

281 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

stantially  divorced  from  the  kind  and  homely 
ties  of  life. 

"Your  father  and  mother?"  cried  the  priest. 
"Very  well;  you  will  convert  them  in  their  turn 
when  you  go  home." 

I  think  I  see  my  father's  face!  I  would  rather 
tackle  the  Gaetulian  lion  in  his  den  than  em- 
bark on  such  an  enterprise  against  the  family 
theologian. 

But  now  the  hunt  was  up;  priest  and  soldier 
were  in  full  cry  for  my  conversion;  and  the 
Work  of  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith,  for  which 
the  people  of  Cheylard  subscribed  forty-eight 
francs  ten  centimes  during  1877,  was  being  gal- 
lantly pursued  against  myself.  It  was  an  odd 
but  most  effective  proselytising.  They  never 
sought  to  convince  me  in  argument,  where  I 
might  have  attempted  some  defence;  but  took 
it  for  granted  that  I  was  both  ashamed  and 
terrified  at  my  position,  and  urged  me  solely 
on  the  point  of  time.  Now,  they  said,  when 
God  had  led  me  to  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows,  now 
was  the  appointed  hour. 

"Do  not  be  withheld  by  false  shame,"  ob- 
served the  priest,  for  my  encouragement. 

For  one  who  feels  very  similarly  to  all  sects 
of  religion,  and  who  has  never  been  able,  even 
for  a  moment,  to  weigh  seriously  the  merit  of 
this  or  that  creed  on  the  eternal  side  of  things, 
however  much  he  may  see  to  praise  or  blame 
upon  the  secular  and  temporal  side,  the  situation 

282 


THE  BOARDERS 

thus  created  was  both  unfair  and  painful.  I 
committed  my  second  fault  in  tact,  and  tried 
to  plead  that  it  was  all  the  same  thing  in  the 
end,  and  we  were  all  drawing  near  by  different 
sides  to  the  same  kind  and  undiscriminating 
Friend  and  Father.  That,  as  it  seems  to  lay 
spirits,  would  be  the  only  gospel  worthy  of  the 
name.  But  different  men  think  differently; 
and  this  revolutionary  aspiration  brought  down 
the  priest  with  all  the  terrors  of  the  law.  He 
launched  into  harrowing  details  of  hell.  The 
damned,  he  said — on  the  authority  of  a  little 
book  which  he  had  read  not  a  week  before,  and 
which,  to  add  conviction  to  conviction,  he  had 
fully  intended  to  bring  along  with  him  in  his 
pocket — were  to  occupy  the  same  attitude 
through  all  eternity  in  the  midst  of  dismal  tor- 
tures. And  as  he  thus  expatiated,  he  grew  in 
nobility  of  aspect  with  his  enthusiasm. 

As  a  result  the  pair  concluded  that  I  should 
seek  out  the  Prior,  since  the  Abbot  was  from 
home,  and  lay  my  case  immediately  before 
him. 

"C'est  mon  conseil  comme  ancien  militaire." 

7 

observed  the  commandant;  "et  celui  de  monsieur 
comme  pretre" 

"Oui"  added  the  cure,  sententiously  nodding; 
"comme  ancien  militaire — et  comme  pretre" 

At  this  moment,  whilst  I  was  somewhat  em- 
barrassed how  to  answer,  in  came  one  of  the 
monks,  a  little  brown  fellow,  as  lively  as  a  grig, 

283 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

and  with  an  Italian  accent,  who  threw  himself 
at  once  into  the  contention,  but  in  a  milder  and 
more  persuasive  vein,  as  befitted  one  of  these 
pleasant  brethren.  Look  at  him,  he  said.  The 
rule  was  very  hard;  he  would  have  dearly  liked 
to  stay  in  his  own  country,  Italy — it  was  well 
known  how  beautiful  it  was,  the  beautiful  Italy ; 
but  then  there  were  no  Trappists  in  Italy ;  and 
he  had  a  soul  to  save ;  and  here  he  was. 

I  am  afraid  I  must  be  at  bottom,  what  a  cheer- 
ful Indian  critic  has  dubbed  me,  "a  f addling 
hedonist;"  for  this  description  of  the  brother's 
motives  gave  me  somewhat  of  a  shock.  I  should 
have  preferred  to  think  he  had  chosen  the  life 
for  its  own  sake,  and  not  for  ulterior  purposes; 
and  this  shows  how  profoundly  I  was  out  of 
sympathy  with  these  good  Trappists,  even  when 
I  was  doing  my  best  to  sympathise.  But  to  the 
cure  the  argument  seemed  decisive. 

"Hear  that!"  he  cried.  "And  I  have  seen  a 
marquis  here,  a  marquis,  a  marquis" — he  re- 
peated the  holy  word  three  times  over — "and 
other  persons  high  in  society;  and  generals. 
And  here,  at  your  side,  is  this  gentleman,  who 
has  been  so  many  years  in  armies — decorated, 
an  old  warrior.  And  here  he  is,  ready  to  dedi- 
cate himself  to  God." 

I  was  by  this  time  so  thoroughly  embarrassed 
that  I  pleaded  cold  feet,  and  made  my  escape 
from  the  apartment.  It  was  a  furious  windy 
morning,  with  a  sky  much  cleared,  and  long 

284 


THE  BOARDERS 

and  potent  intervals  of  sunshine;  and  I  wan- 
dered until  dinner  in  the  wild  country  towards 
the  east,  sorely  staggered  and  beaten  upon  by 
the  gale,  but  rewarded  with  some  striking  views. 

At  dinner  the  Work  of  the  Propagation  of  the 
Faith  was  recommenced,  and  on  this  occasion 
still  more  distastefully  to  me.  The  priest  asked 
me  many  questions  as  to  the  contemptible  faith 
of  my  fathers,  and  received  my  replies  with  a 
kind  of  ecclesiastical  titter. 

"Your  sect,"  he  said  once;  "for  I  think  you 
will  admit  it  would  be  doing  it  too  much  honour 
to  call  it  a  religion." 

"As  you  please,  monsieur,"  said  I.  "La 
parole  est  a  vous." 

At  length  I  grew  annoyed  beyond  endurance; 
and  although  he  was  on  his  own  ground,  and, 
what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  an  old  man,  and 
so  holding  a  claim  upon  my  toleration,  I  could 
not  avoid  a  protest  against  this  uncivil  usage. 
He  was  sadly  discountenanced. 

"  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  inclination 
to  laugh  in  my  heart.  I  have  no  other  feeling 
but  interest  in  your  soul." 

And  there  ended  my  conversion.  Honest 
man!  He  was  no  dangerous  deceiver;  but  a 
country  parson,  full  of  zeal  and  faith.  Long 
may  he  tread  Gevaudan  with  his  kilted  skirts — 
a  man  strong  to  walk  and  strong  to  comfort  his 
parishioners  in  death!  I  dare  say  he  would 
beat  bravely  through  a  snowstorm  where  his 

285 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

duty  called  him;  and  it  is  not  always  the  most 
faithful  believer  who  makes  the  cunningest 
apostle. 


286 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 

CONTINUED 


"  The  bed  was  made,  theroom  was  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit: 
The  air  was  sweet,  the  water  rani 
No  need  was  therefor  maid  or  man. 
When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  /, 
At  God's  green  caravanserai." 
— OLD  PLAY. 


ACROSS  THE  GOULET 

THE  wind  fell  during  dinner,  and  the  sky 
remained  clear;  so  it  was  under  better  au- 
spices that  I  loaded  Modestine  before  the  mon- 
astery gate.  My  Irish  friend  accompanied  me 
so  far  on  the  way.  As  we  came  through  the 
wood,  there  was  Pere  Apollinaire  hauling  his  bar- 
row; and  he  too  quitted  his  labours  to  go  with 
me  for  perhaps  a  hundred  yards,  holding  my 
hand  between  both  of  his  in  front  of  him.  I 
parted  first  from  one  and  then  from  the  other 
with  unfeigned  regret,  but  yet  with  the  glee 
of  the  traveller  who  shakes  off  the  dust  of  one 
stage  before  hurrying  forth  upon  another.  Then 
Modestine  and  I  mounted  the  course  of  the  Allier, 
which  here  led  us  back  into  Gevaudan  towards  its 
sources  in  the  forest  of  Mercoire.  It  was  but 
an  inconsiderable  burn  before  we  left  its  guid- 
ance. Thence,  over  a  hill,  our  way  lay  through 
a  naked  plateau,  until  we  reached  Chasserades 
at  sundown. 

The  company  in  the  inn  kitchen  that  night 
289 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DOXKEY 

were  all  men  employed  in  survey  for  one  of  the 
projected  railways.  They  were  intelligent  and 
conversible,  and  we  decided  the  future  of  France 
over  hot  wine,  until  the  state  of  the  clock  fright- 
ened us  to  rest.  There  were  four  beds  in  the 
little  upstairs  room;  and  we  slept  six.  But  I 
had  a  bed  to  myself,  and  persuaded  them  to  leave 
the  window  open. 

"He,  bourgeois;  il  est  cinq  heures!"  was  the  cry 
that  wakened  me  in  the  morning  (Saturday, 
September  28th).  The  room  was  full  of  a  trans- 
parent darkness,  which  dimly  showed  me  the 
other  three  beds  and  the  five  different  nightcaps 
on  the  pillows.  But  out  of  the  window  the  dawn 
was  growing  ruddy  in  a  long  belt  over  the  hill- 
tops, and  day  was  about  to  flood  the  plateau. 
The  hour  was  inspiriting;  and  there  seemed  a 
promise  of  calm  weather,  which  was  perfectly 
fulfilled.  I  was  soon  under  way  with  Modestine. 
The  road  lay  for  a  while  over  the  plateau,  and 
then  descended  through  a  precipitous  village 
into  the  valley  of  the  Chassezac.  This  stream 
ran  among  green  meadows,  well  hidden  from 
the  world  by  its  steep  banks ;  the  broom  was  in 
flower,  and  here  and  there  was  a  hamlet  sending 
up  its  smoke. 

At  last  the  path  crossed  the  Chassezac  upon 
a  bridge,  and,  forsaking  this  deep  hollow,  set 
itself  to  cross  the  mountain  of  La  Goulet.  It 
wound  up  through  Lestampes  by  upland  fields 
and  woods  of  beech  and  birch,  and  with  every 

290 


ACROSS  THE  GOULET 

corner  brought  me  into  an  acquaintance  with 
some  new  interest.  Even  in  the  gully  of  the 
Chassezac  my  ear  had  been  struck  by  a  noise 
like  that  of  a  great  bass  bell  ringing  at  the 
distance  of  many  miles ;  but  this,  as  I  continued 
to  mount  and  draw  nearer  to  it,  seemed  to  change 
in  character,  and  I  found  at  length  that  it  came 
from  some  one  leading  flocks  afield  to  the  note 
of  a  rural  horn.  The  narrow  street  of  Lestampes 
stood  full  of  sheep,  from  wall  to  wall — black 
sheep  and  white,  bleating  like  the  birds  in  spring, 
and  each  one  accompanying  himself  upon  the 
sheep-bell  round  his  neck.  It  made  a  pathetic 
concert,  all  in  treble.  A  little  higher,  and  I 
passed  a  pair  of  men  in  a  tree  with  pruning- 
hooks,  and  one  of  them  was  singing  the  music 
of  a  bourree.  Still  further,  and  when  I  was  al- 
ready threading  the  birches,  the  crowing  of 
cocks  came  cheerfully  up  to  my  ears,  and  along 
with  that  the  voice  of  a  flute  discoursing  a  de- 
liberate and  plaintive  air  from  one  of  the  upland 
villages.  I  pictured  to  myself  some  grizzled, 
apple-cheeked,  country  schoolmaster  fluting  in 
his  bit  of  a  garden  in  the  clear  autumn  sunshine. 
All  these  beautiful  and  interesting  sounds  filled 
my  heart  with  an  unwonted  expectation;  and 
it  appeared  to  me  that,  once  past  this  range  which 
I  was  mounting,  I  should  descend  into  the  gar- 
den of  the  world.  Nor  was  I  deceived,  for  I 
was  now  done  with  rains  and  winds  and  a  bleak 
country.  The  first  part  of  my  journey  ended 

291 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

here;  and  this  was  like  an  induction  of  sweet 
sounds  into  the  other  and  more  beautiful. 

There  are  other  degrees  of  feyness,  as  of  pun- 
ishment, besides  the  capital;  and  I  was  now  led 
by  my  good  spirits  into  an  adventure  which  I 
relate  in  the  interest  of  future  donkey-drivers. 
The  road  zigzagged  so  widely  on  the  hillside  that 
I  chose  a  short  cut  by  map  and  compass,  and 
struck  through  the  dwarf  woods  to  catch  the 
road  again  upon  a  higher  level.  It  was  my 
one  serious  conflict  with  Modestine.  She  would 
none  of  my  short  cut;  she  turned  in  my  face, 
she  backed,  she  reared ;  she,  whom  I  had  hitherto 
imagined  to  be  dumb,  actually  brayed  with  a 
loud  hoarse  flourish,  like  a  cock  crowing  for 
the  dawn.  I  plied  the  goad  with  one  hand ;  with 
the  other,  so  steep  was  the  ascent,  I  had  to  hold 
on  the  pack-saddle.  Half  a  dozen  times  she  was 
nearly  over  backwards  on  the  top  of  me;  half 
a  dozen  times,  from  sheer  weariness  of  spirit, 
I  was  nearly  giving  it  up,  and  leading  her  down 
again  to  follow  the  road.  But  I  took  the  thing 
as  a  wager,  and  fought  it  through.  I  was  sur- 
prised, as  I  went  on  my  way  again,  by  what 
appeared  to  be  chill  rain-drops  falling  on  my 
hand,  and  more  than  once  looked  up  in  wonder 
at  the  cloudless  sky.  But  it  was  only  sweat 
which  came  dropping  from  my  brow. 

Over  the  summit,  of  the  Goulet  there  was  no 
marked  road — only  upright  stones  posted  from 
space  to  space  to  guide  the  drovers.  The  turf 

292 


ACROSS  THE  GOULET 

underfoot  was  springy  and  well  scented.  I  had 
no  company  but  a  lark  or  two,  and  met  but  one 
bullock-cart  between  Lestampes  and  Bleymard. 
In  front  of  me  I  saw  a  shallow  valley,  and  beyond 
that  the  range  of  the  Lozere,  sparsely  wooded 
and  well  enough  modelled  in  the  flanks,  but 
straight  and  dull  in  outline.  There  was  scarce 
a  sign  of  culture;  only  about  Bleymard,  the 
white  highroad  from  Villefort  to  Mende  trav- 
ersed a  range  of  meadows,  set  with  spiry  pop- 
lars, and  sounding  from  side  to  side  with  the 
bells  of  flocks  and  herds. 


293 


A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  PINES 

FROM  Bleymard  after  dinner,  although  it 
was  already  late,  I  set  out  to  scale  a  por- 
tion of  the  Lozere.  An  ill-marked  stony  drove- 
road  guided  me  forward;  and  I  met  nearly  half 
a  dozen  bullock-carts  descending  from  the 
woods,  each  laden  with  a  whole  pine-tree  for 
the  winter's  firing.  At  the  top  of  the  woods, 
which  do  not  climb  very  high  upon  this  cold 
ridge,  I  struck  leftward  by  a  path  among  the 
pines,  until  I  hit  on  a  deh1  of  green  turf,  where  a 
streamlet  made  a  little  spout  over  some  stones 
to  serve  me  for  a  water-tap.  "In  a  more  sacred 
or  sequestered  bower — nor  nymph  nor  faunus 
haunted."  The  trees  were  not  old,  but  they 
grew  thickly  round  the  glade:  there  was  no 
outlook,  except  north-eastward  upon  distant 
hill-tops,  or  straight  upward  to  the  sky ;  and  the 
encampment  felt  secure  and  private  like  a  room. 
By  the  time  I  had  made  my  arrangements  and 
fed  Modestine,  the  day  was  already  beginning 
to  decline.  I  buckled  myself  to  the  knees  into 
my  sack  and  made  a  hearty  meal;  and  as  soon 

294 


A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  PINES 

as  the  sun  went  down,  I  pulled  my  cap  over  my 
eyes  and  fell  asleep. 

Night  is  a  dead  monotonous  period  under  a 
roof;  but  in  the  open  world  it  passes  lightly, 
with  its  stars  and  dews  and  perfumes,  and  the 
hours  are  marked  by  changes  in  the  face  of  Na- 
ture. What  seems  a  kind  of  temporal  death  to 
people  choked  between  walls  and  curtains,  is  only 
a  light  and  living  slumber  to  the  man  who  sleeps 
afield.  All  night  long  he  can  hear  Nature 
breathing  deeply  and  freely;  even  as  she  takes 
her  rest  she  turns  and  smiles;  and  there  is  one 
stirring  hour  unknown  to  those  who  dwell  in 
houses,  when  a  wakeful  influence  goes  abroad 
over  the  sleeping  hemisphere,  and  all  the  out- 
door world  are  on  their  feet.  It  is  then  that 
the  cock  first  crows,  not  this  time  to  announce 
the  dawn,  but  like  a  cheerful  watchman  speeding 
the  course  of  night.  Cattle  awake  on  the  mead- 
ows; sheep  break  their  fast  on  dewy  hillsides, 
and  change  to  a  new  lair  among  the  ferns;  and 
houseless  men,  who  have  lain  down  with  the 
fowls,  open  their  dim  eyes  and  behold  the  beauty 
of  the  night. 

At  what  inaudible  summons,  at  what  gentle 
touch  of  Nature,  are  all  these  sleepers  thus  re- 
called in  the  same  hour  to  life?  Do  the  stars 
rain  down  an  influence,  or  do  we  share  some 
thrill  of  mother  earth  below  our  resting  bodies? 
Even  shepherds  and  old  country-folk,  who  are 
the  deepest  read  in  these  arcana,  have  not  a 

295 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

guess  as  to  the  means  or  purpose  of  this  nightly 
resurrection.  Towards  two  in  the  morning 
they  declare  the  thing  takes  place;  and  neither 
know  nor  inquire  further.  And  at  least  it  is  a 
pleasant  incident.  We  are  disturbed  in  our 
slumber  only,  like  the  luxurious  Montaigne, 
"that  we  may  the  better  and  more  sensibly 
relish  it."  We  have  a  moment  to  look  upon 
the  stars,  and  there  is  a  special  pleasure  for  some 
minds  in  the  reflection  that  we  share  the  impulse 
with  all  outdoor  creatures  in  our  neighbourhood, 
that  we  have  escaped  out  of  the  Bastille  of  civil- 
isation, and  are  become,  for  the  time  being,  a 
mere  kindly  animal  and  a  sheep  of  Nature's 
flock. 

When  that  hour  came  to  me  among  the  pines, 
I  wakened  thirsty.  My  tin  was  standing  by 
me  half  full  of  water.  I  emptied  it  at  a  draught ; 
and  feeling  broad  awake  after  this  internal  cold 
aspersion,  sat  upright  to  make  a  cigarette. 
The  stars  were  clear,  coloured,  and  jewel-like, 
but  not  frosty.  A  faint  silvery  vapour  stood 
for  the  Milky  Way.  Ail  around  me  the  black 
fir-points  stood  upright  and  stock-still.  By  the 
whiteness  of  the  pack-saddle,  I  could  see  Modes- 
tine  walking  round  and  round  at  the  length  of 
her  tether;  I  could  hear  her  steadily  munching 
at  the  sward;  but  there  was  not  another  sound, 
save  the  indescribable  quiet  talk  of  the  runnel 
over  the  stones.  I  lay  lazily  smoking  and  study- 
ing the  colour  of  the  sky,  as  we  call  the  void 

296 


A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  PINES 

of  space,  from  where  it  showed  a  reddish  grey 
behind  the  pines  to  where  it  showed  a  glossy 
blue-black  between  the  stars.  As  if  to  be  more 
like  a  pedlar,  I  wear  a  silver  ring.  This  I  could 
see  faintly  shining  as  I  raised  or  lowered  the 
cigarette;  and  at  each  whiff  the  inside  of  my 
hand  was  illuminated,  and  became  for  a  second 
the  highest  light  in  the  landscape. 

A  faint  wind,  more  like  a  moving  coolness  than 
a  stream  of  air,  passed  down  the  glade  from 
time  to  time;  so  that  even  in  my  great  chamber 
the  air  was  being  renewed  all  night  long.  I 
thought  with  horror  of  the  inn  at  Chasserades 
and  the  congregated  nightcaps;  with  horror  of 
the  nocturnal  prowesses  of  clerks  and  students, 
of  hot  theatres  and  pass-keys  and  close  rooms. 
I  have  not  often  enjoyed  a  more  serene  posses- 
sion of  myself,  nor  felt  more  independent  of 
material  aids.  The  outer  world,  from  which  we 
cower  into  our  houses,  seemed  after  all  a  gentle 
habitable  place;  and  night  after  night  a  man's 
bed,  it  seemed,  was  laid  and  waiting  for  him  in 
the  fields,  where  God  keeps  an  open  house.  I 
thought  I  had  rediscovered  one  of  those  truths 
which  are  revealed  to  savages  and  hid  from 
political  economists:  at  the  least,  I  had  discov- 
ered a  new  pleasure  for  myself.  And  yet  even 
while  I  was  exulting  in  my  solitude  I  became 
aware  of  a  strange  lack.  I  wished  a  companion 
to  lie  near  me  in  the  starlight,  silent  and  not 
moving,  but  ever  within  touch.  For  there  is  a 

297 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

fellowship  more  quiet  even  than  solitude,  and 
which,  rightly  understood,  is  solitude  made 
perfect.  And  to  live  out  of  doors  with  the 
woman  a  man  loves  is  of  all  lives  the  most  com- 
plete and  free. 

As  I  thus  lay,  between  content  and  longing, 
a  faint  noise  stole  towards  me  through  the 
pines.  I  thought,  at  first,  it  was  the  crowing 
of  cocks  or  the  barking  of  dogs  at  some  very 
distant  farm;  but  steadily  and  gradually  it 
took  articulate  shape  in  my  ears,  until  I  became 
aware  that  a  passenger  was  going  by  upon  the 
highroad  in  the  valley,  and  singing  loudly  as  he 
went.  There  was  more  of  good-will  than  grace 
in  his  performance;  but  he  trolled  with  ample 
lungs ;  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  took  hold  upon 
the  hillside  and  set  the  air  shaking  in  the  leafy 
glens.  I  have  heard  people  passing  by  night  in 
sleeping  cities;  some  of  them  sang;  one,  I  re- 
member, played  loudly  on  the  bagpipes.  I  have 
heard  the  rattle  of  a  cart  or  carriage  spring  up 
suddenly  after  hours  of  stillness,  and  pass,  for 
some  minutes,  within  the  range  of  my  hearing 
as  I  lay  abed.  There  is  a  romance  about  all 
who  are  abroad  in  the  black  hours,  and  with 
something  of  a  thrill  we  try  to  guess  their  busi- 
ness. But  here  the  romance  was  double:  first, 
this  glad  passenger,  lit  internally  with  wine, 
who  sent  up  his  voice  in  music  through  the  night ; 
and  then  I,  on  the  other  hand,  buckled  into  my 
sack,  and  smoking  alone  in  the  pine-woods 

298 


A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  PINES 

between  four  and  five  thousand  feet  towards 
the  stars. 

When  I  awoke  again  (Sunday,  29th  Septem- 
ber), many  of  the  stars  had  disappeared;  only  the 
stronger  companions  of  the  night  still  burned 
visibly  overhead;  and  away  towards  the  east  I 
saw  a  faint  haze  of  light  upon  the  horizon,  such 
as  had  been  the  Milky  Way  when  I  was  last 
awake.  Day  was  at  hand.  I  lit  my  lantern, 
and  by  its  glowworm  light  put  on  my  boots  and 
gaiters;  then  I  broke  up  some  bread  for  Modes- 
tine,  filled  my  can  at  the  water-tap,  and  lit  my 
spirit-lamp  to  boil  myself  some  chocolate.  The 
blue  darkness  lay  long  in  the  glade  where  I  had 
so  sweetly  slumbered;  but  soon  there  was  a 
broad  streak  of  orange  melting  into  gold  along 
the  mountain-tops  of  Vivarais.  A  solemn  glee 
possessed  my  mind  at  this  gradual  and  lovely 
coming  in  of  day.  I  heard  the  runnel  with  de- 
light ;  I  looked  round  me  for  something  beautiful 
and  unexpected;  but  the  still  black  pine-trees, 
the  hollow  glade,  the  munching  ass,  remained 
unchanged  in  figure.  Nothing  had  altered  but 
the  light,  and  that,  indeed,  shed  over  all  a  spirit 
of  life  and  of  breathing  peace,  and  moved  me  to  a 
strange  exhilaration. 

I  drank  my  water  chocolate,  which  was  hot  if 
it  was  not  rich,  and  strolled  here  and  there, 
and  up  and  down  about  the  glade.  While 
I  was  thus  delaying,  a  gush  of  steady  wind,  as 
long  as  a  heavy  sigh,  poured  direct  out  of  the 

299 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

quarter  of  the  morning.  It  was  cold,  and  set 
me  sneezing.  The  trees  near  at  hand  tossed 
their  black  plumes  in  its  passage;  and  I  could 
see  the  thin  distant  spires  of  pine  along  the  edge 
of  the  hill  rock  slightly  to  and  fro  against  the 
golden  east.  Ten  minutes  after,  the  sunlight 
spread  at  a  gallop  along  the  hillside,  scattering 
shadows  and  sparkles,  and  the  day  had  come 
completely. 

I  hastened  to  prepare  my  pack,  and  tackle  the 
steep  ascent  that  lay  before  me;  but  I  had  some- 
thing on  my  mind.  It  was  only  a  fancy;  yet 
a  fancy  will  sometimes  be  importunate.  I  had 
been  most  hospitably  received  and  punctually 
served  in  my  green  caravanserai.  The  room 
was  airy,  the  water  excellent,  and  the  dawn 
had  called  me  to  a  moment.  I  say  nothing  of 
the  tapestries  or  the  inimitable  ceiling,  nor  yet 
of  the  view  which  I  commanded  from  the  win- 
dows ;  but  I  felt  I  was  in  some  one's  debt  for  all 
this  liberal  entertainment.  And  so  it  pleased 
me,  in  a  half-laughing  Avay,  to  leave  pieces  of 
money  on  the  turf  as  I  went  along,  until  I  had 
left  enough  for  my  night's  lodging.  I  trust 
they  did  not  fall  to  some  rich  and  churlish  drover. 


300 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE 
CAMISARDS 

"We  travelled  in  the  print  of  olden  wars; 
Yet  all  the  land  was  green; 
And  love  we  found,  and  peace, 
Where  fire  and  war  had  been. 
They  pass  and  smile,  the  children  of  the  sword — 
No  more  the  sword  they  wield: 
And  0,  how  deep  the  corn 
Along  the  battlefield!" 

— W.  P.  BANNATYNE. 


ACROSS  THE  LOZERE 

THE  track  that  I  had  followed  in  the  evening 
soon  died  out,  and  I  continued  to  follow 
over  a  bald  turf  ascent  a  row  of  stone  pillars, 
such  as  had  conducted  me  across  the  Goulet.  It 
was  already  warm.  I  tied  my  jacket  on  the 
pack,  and  walked  in  my  knitted  waistcoat. 
Modestine  herself  was  in  high  spirits,  and  broke 
of  her  own  accord,  for  the  first  time  in  my  ex- 
perience, into  a  jolting  trot  that  sent  the  oats 
swashing  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat.  The  view, 
back  upon  the  northern  Gevaudan,  extended 
with  every  step;  scarce  a  tree,  scarce  a  house, 
appeared  upon  the  fields  of  wild  hill  that  ran 
north,  east,  and  west,  all  blue  and  gold  in  the 
haze  and  sunlight  of  the  morning.  A  multitude 
of  little  birds  kept  sweeping  and  twittering  about 
my  path;  they  perched  on  the  stone  pillars, 
they  pecked  and  strutted  on  the  turf,  and  I  saw 
them  circle  in  volleys  in  the  blue  air,  and  show, 
from  time  to  time,  translucent  flickering  wings 
between  the  sun  and  me. 

303 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Almost  from  the  first  moment  of  my  march 
a  faint  large  noise,  like  a  distant  surf,  had  filled 
my  ears.  Sometimes  I  was  tempted  to  think 
it  the  voice  of  a  neighbouring  waterfall,  and 
sometimes  a  subjective  result  of  the  utter  still- 
ness of  the  hill.  But  as  I  continued  to  advance, 
the  noise  increased  and  became  like  the  hissing 
of  an  enormous  tea-urn,  and  at  the  same  time 
breaths  of  cool  air  began  to  reach  me  from  the 
direction  of  the  summit.  At  length  I  under- 
stood. It  was  blowing  stiffly  from  the  south 
upon  the  other  slope  of  the  Lozere,  and  every  step 
that  I  took  I  was  drawing  nearer  to  the  wind. 

Although  it  had  been  long  desired,  it  was  quite 
unexpectedly  at  last  that  my  eyes  rose  above  the 
summit.  A  step  that  seemed  no  way  more  de- 
cisive than  many  other  steps  that  had  preceded 
it — and,  "like  stout  Cortez  when,  with  eagle 
eyes,  he  stared  at  the  Pacific,"  I  took  possession, 
in  my  own  name,  of  a  new  quarter  of  the  world. 
For  behold,  instead  of  the  gross  turf  rampart 
I  had  been  mounting  for  so  long,  a  view  into  the 
hazy  air  of  heaven,  and  a  land  of  intricate  blue 
hills  below  my  feet. 

The  Lozere  lies  nearly  east  and  west,  cutting 
Gevaudan  into  two  unequal  parts;  its  highest 
point,  this  Pic  de  Finiels,  on  which  I  was  then 
standing,  rises  upwards  of  five  thousand  six  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea,  and  in  clear  weather 
commands  a  view  over  all  lower  Languedoc  to  the 
Mediterranean  Sea.  I  have  spoken  with  people 

304 


ACROSS  THE  LOZERE 

who  either  pretended  or  believed  that  they  had 
seen,  from  the  Pic  de  Finiels,  white  ships  sailing 
by  Montpellier  and  Cette.  Behind  was  the  up- 
land northern  country  through  which  my  way 
had  lain,  peopled  by  a  dull  race,  without  wood, 
without  much  grandeur  of  hill-form,  and  famous 
in  the  past  for  little  besides  wolves.  But  in 
front  of  me,  half-veiled  in  sunny  haze,  lay  a 
new  Gevaudan,  rich,  picturesque,  illustrious  for 
stirring  events.  Speaking  largely,  I  was  in  the 
Cevennes  at  Monastier,  and  during  all  my  jour- 
ney ;  but  there  is  a  strict  and  local  sense  in  which 
only  this  confused  and  shaggy  country  at  my 
feet  has  any  title  to  the  name,  and  in  this  sense 
the  peasantry  employ  the  word.  These  are 
the  Cevennes  with  an  emphasis :  the  Cevennes  of 
the  Cevennes.  In  that  undecipherable  labyrinth 
of  hills,  a  war  of  bandits,  a  war  of  wild  beasts, 
raged  for  two  years  between  the  Grand  Monarch 
with  all  his  troops  and  marshals  on  the  one 
hand,  and  a  few  thousand  Protestant  moun- 
taineers upon  the  other.  A  hundred  and  eighty 
years  ago,  the  Camisards  held  a  station  even  on 
the  Lozere,  where  I  stood;  they  had  an  organisa- 
tion, arsenals,  a  military  and  religious  hierarchy ; 
their  affairs  were  "the  discourse  of  every  coffee- 
house" in  London;  England  sent  fleets  in  their 
support ;  their  leaders  prophesied  and  murdered ; 
with  colours  and  drums,  and  the  singing  of  old 
French  psalms,  their  bands  sometimes  affronted 
daylight,  marched  before  walled  cities,  and 

305 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

dispersed  the  generals  of  the  king;  and  sometimes 
at  night,  or  in  masquerade,  possessed  themselves 
of  strong  castles,  and  avenged  treachery  upon 
their  allies  and  cruelty  upon  their  foes.  There, 
a  hundred  and  eighty  years  ago,  was  the  chival- 
rous Roland,  "Count  and  Lord  Roland  generalis- 
simo of  the  Protestants  in  France,"  grave,  silent, 
imperious,  pock-marked  ex-dragoon,  whom  a 
lady  followed  in  his  wanderings  out  of  love. 
There  was  Cavalier,  a  baker's  apprentice  with  a 
genius  for  war,  elected  brigadier  of  Camisards 
at  seventeen,  to  die  at  fifty-five  the  English 
governor  of  Jersey.  There  again  was  Castanet, 
a  partisan  leader  in  a  voluminous  peruke  and 
with  a  taste  for  controversial  divinity.  Strange 
generals,  who  moved  apart  to  take  counsel  with 
the  God  of  Hosts,  and  fled  or  offered  battle,  set 
sentinels  or  slept  in  an  unguarded  camp,  as  the 
Spirit  whispered  to  their  hearts!  And  there,  to 
follow  these  and  other  leaders,  was  the  rank  and 
file  of  prophets  and  disciples,  bold,  patient, 
indefatigable,  hardy  to  run  upon  the  mountains, 
cheering  their  rough  life  with  psalms,  eager  to 
fight,  eager  to  pray,  listening  devoutly  to  the 
oracles  of  brain-sick  children,  and  mystically 
putting  a  grain  of  wheat  among  the  pewter  balls 
with  which  they  charged  their  muskets. 

I  had  travelled  hitherto  through  a  dull  district 
and  in  the  track  of  nothing  more  notable  than 
the  child-eating  Reast  of  Gevaudan,  the  Napo- 
leon Ronaparte  of  wolves.  Rut  now  I  was  to  go 

306 


ACROSS  THE  LOZERE 

down  into  the  scene  of  a  romantic  chapter — or, 
better,  a  romantic  foot-note — in  the  history  of 
the  world.  What  was  left  of  all  this  bygone 
dust  and  heroism?  I  was  told  that  Protest- 
antism still  survived  in  this  head  seat  of  Prot- 
estant resistance;  so  much  the  priest  himself 
had  told  me  in  the  monastery  parlour.  But  I 
had  yet  to  learn  if  it  were  a  bare  survival,  or  a 
lively  and  generous  tradition.  Again,  if  in  the 
northern  Cevennes  the  people  are  narrow  in 
religious  judgments,  and  more  filled  with  zeal 
than  charity,  what  was  I  to  look  for  in  this  land 
of  persecution  and  reprisal — in  a  land  where  the 
tyranny  of  the  Church  produced  the  Camisard 
rebellion,  and  the  terror  of  the  Camisards  threw 
the  Catholic  peasantry  into  legalised  revolt 
upon  the  other  side,  so  that  Camisard  and 
Florentin  skulked  for  each  other's  lives  among 
the  mountains? 

Just  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  I  paused  to 
look  before  me,  the  series  of  stone  pillars  came 
abruptly  to  an  end;  and  only  a  little  below,  a 
sort  of  track  appeared  and  began  to  go  down 
a  break-neck  slope,  turning  like  a  corkscrew  as 
it  went.  It  led  into  a  valley  between  falling 
hills,  stubbly  with  rocks  like  a  reaped  field  of 
corn,  and  floored  farther  down  with  green  mead- 
ows. I  followed  the  track  with  precipitation; 
the  steepness  of  the  slope,  the  continual  agile 
turning  of  the  line  of  descent,  and  the  old  un- 
wearied hope  of  finding  something  new  in  a  new 

307 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

country,  all  conspired  to  lend  me  wings.  Yet  a 
little  lower  and  a  stream  began,  collecting  itself 
together  out  of  many  fountains,  and  soon  mak- 
ing a  glad  noise  among  the  hills.  Sometimes  it 
would  cross  the  track  in  a  bit  of  waterfall,  with 
a  pool,  in  which  Modestine  refreshed  her  feet. 

The  whole  descent  is  like  a  dream  to  me,  so 
rapidly  was  it  accomplished.  I  had  scarcely 
left  the  summit  ere  the  valley  had  closed  round 
my  path,  and  the  sun  beat  upon  me,  walking  in 
a  stagnant  lowland  atmosphere.  The  track  be- 
came a  road,  and  went  up  and  down  in  easy  un- 
dulations. I  passed  cabin  after  cabin,  but  all 
seemed  deserted ;  and  I  saw  not  a  human  creature 
nor  heard  any  sound  except  that  of  the  stream. 
I  was,  however,  in  a  different  country  from  the 
day  before.  The  stony  skeleton  of  the  world 
was  here  vigorously  displayed  to  sun  and  air. 
The  slopes  were  steep  and  changeful.  Oak- 
trees  clung  along  the  hills,  well  grown,  wealthy 
in  leaf,  and  touched  by  the  autumn  with  strong 
and  luminous  colours.  Here  and  there  another 
stream  would  fall  in  from  the  right  or  the  left, 
down  a  gorge  of  snow-white  and  tumultuary 
boulders.  The  river  in  the  bottom  (for  it  was 
rapidly  growing  a  river,  collecting  on  all  hands 
as  it  trotted  on  its  way)  here  foamed  a  while  in 
desperate  rapids,  and  there  lay  in  pools  of  the 
most  enchanting  sea-green  shot  with  watery 
browns.  As  far  as  I  have  gone,  I  have  never 
seen  a  river  of  so  changeful  and  delicate  a  hue; 

308 


ACROSS  THE  LOZERE 

crystal  was  not  more  clear,  the  meadows  were 
not  by  half  so  green ;  and  at  every  pool  I  saw  I 
felt  a  thrill  of  longing  to  be  out  of  these  hot, 
dusty,  and  material  garments,  and  bathe  my 
naked  body  in  the  mountain  air  and  water. 
All  the  time  as  I  went  on  I  never  forgot  it  was 
the  Sabbath;  the  stillness  was  a  perpetual  re- 
minder; and  I  heard  in  spirit  the  church-bells 
clamouring  all  over  Europe,  and  the  psalms  of  a 
thousand  churches. 

At  length  a  human  sound  struck  upon  my 
ear — a  cry  strangely  modulated  between  pathos 
and  derision;  and  looking  across  the  valley,  I  saw 
a  little  urchin  sitting  in  a  meadow,  with  his 
hands  about  his  knees,  and  dwarfed  to  almost 
comical  smallness  by  the  distance.  But  the 
rogue  had  picked  me  out  as  I  went  down  the 
road,  from  oak  wood  on  to  oak  wood,  driving 
Modestine;  and  he  made  me  the  compliments 
of  the  new  country  in  this  tremulous  high-pitched 
salutation.  And  as  all  noises  are  lovely  and 
natural  at  a  sufficient  distance,  this  also,  coming 
through  so  much  clean  hill  air  and  crossing  all 
the  green  valley,  sounded  pleasant  to  my  ear, 
and  seemed  a  thing  rustic,  like  the  oaks  or  the 
river. 

A  little  after,  the  stream  that  I  was  following 
fell  into  the  Tarn,  at  Pont  de  Montvert  of  bloody 
memory. 


309 


PONT  DE  MONTVERT 

0?sE  of  the  first  things  I  encountered  in 
Pont  de  Montvert  was,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  the  Protestant  temple ;  but  this  was  but 
the  type  of  other  novelties.  A  subtle  atmos- 
phere distinguishes  a  town  in  England  from  a 
town  in  France,  or  even  in  Scotland.  At  Carlisle 
you  can  see  you  are  in  one  country;  at  Dumfries, 
thirty  miles  away,  you  are  as  sure  that  you  are 
in  the  other.  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  tell 
in  what  particulars  Pont  de  Montvert  differed 
from  Monastier  or  Langogne  or  even  Bleymard ; 
but  the  difference  existed,  and  spoke  eloquently 
to  the  eyes.  The  place,  with  its  houses,  its 
lanes,  its  glaring  river-bed,  wore  an  indescribable 
air  of  the  South. 

All  was  Sunday  bustle  in  the  streets  and  in  the 
public-house,  as  all  had  been  Sabbath  peace 
among  the  mountains.  There  must  have  been 
near  a  score  of  us  at  dinner  by  eleven  before 
noon;  and  after  I  had  eaten  and  drunken,  and 
sat  writing  up  my  journal,  I  suppose  as  many 
more  came  dropping  in  one  after  another,  or 
by  twos  and  threes.  In  crossing  the  Lozere  I  had 

310 


PONT  DE  MONTVERT 

not  only  come  among  new  natural  features,  but 
moved  into  the  territory  of  a  different  race. 
These  people,  as  they  hurriedly  despatched  their 
viands  in  an  intricate  sword-play  of  knives, 
questioned  and  answered  me  with  a  degree  of 
intelligence  which  excelled  all  that  I  had  met, 
except  among  the  railway  folk  at  Chasserades. 
They  had  open  telling  faces,  and  were  lively 
both  in  speech  and  manner.  They  not  only 
entered  thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  my  little 
trip,  but  more  than  one  declared,  if  he  were  rich 
enough,  he  would  like  to  set  forth  on  such 
another. 

Even  physically  there  was  a  pleasant  change. 
I  had  not  seen  a  pretty  woman  since  I  left 
Monastier,  and  there  but  one.  Now  of  the  three 
who  sat  down  with  me  to  dinner,  one  was  cer- 
tainly not  beautiful — a  poor  timid  thing  of 
forty,  quite  troubled  at  this  roaring  table-d'hote, 
whom  I  squired  and  helped  to  wine,  and  pledged 
and  tried  generally  to  encourage,  with  quite  a 
contrary  effect;  but  the  other  two,  both  married, 
were  both  more  handsome  than  the  average 
of  women.  And  Clarisse?  What  shall  I  say 
of  Clarisse?  She  waited  the  table  with  a  heavy 
placable  nonchalance,  like  a  performing  cow; 
her  great  grey  eyes  were  steeped  in  amorous 
languor;  her  features,  although  fleshy,  were  of 
an  original  and  accurate  design;  her  mouth 
had  a  curl;  her  nostril  spoke  of  dainty  pride; 
her  cheek  fell  into  strange  and  interesting  lines. 

311 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

It  was  a  face  capable  of  strong  emotion,  and, 
with  training,  it  offered  the  promise  of  delicate 
sentiment.  It  seemed  pitiful  to  see  so  good  a 
model  left  to  country  admirers  and  a  country 
way  of  thought.  Beauty  should  at  least  have 
touched  society;  then,  in  a  moment,  it  throws 
off  a  weight  that  lay  upon  it,  it  becomes  con- 
scious of  itself,  it  puts  on  an  elegance,  learns  a 
gait  and  a  carriage  of  the  head,  and,  in  a  moment, 
patet  dea.  Before  I  left  I  assured  Clarisse  of 
my  hearty  admiration.  She  took  it  like  milk, 
without  embarrassment  or  wonder,  merely  look- 
ing at  me  steadily  with  her  great  eyes;  and  I 
own  the  result  upon  myself  was  some  confusion. 
If  Clarisse  could  read  English,  I  should  not  dare 
to  add  that  her  figure  was  unworthy  of  her 
face.  Hers  was  a  case  for  stays;  but  that  may 
perhaps  grow  better  as  she  gets  up  in  years. 

Pont  de  Montvert,  or  Greenhill  Bridge,  as  we 
might  say  at  home,  is  a  place  memorable  in  the 
story  of  the  Camisards.  It  was  here  that  the 
war  broke  out;  here  that  those  southern  Cove- 
nanters slew  their  Archbishop  Sharpe.  The  per- 
secution on  the  one  hand,  the  febrile  enthusiasm 
on  the  other,  are  almost  equally  difficult  to 
understand  in  these  quiet  modern  days,  and  with 
our  easy  modern  beliefs  and  disbeliefs.  The 
Protestants  were  one  and  all  beside  their  right 
minds  with  zeal  and  sorrow.  They  were  all 
prophets  and  prophetesses.  Children  at  the 
breast  would  exhort  their  parents  to  good 

312 


PONT  DE  MONTVERT 

works.  "A  child  of  fifteen  months  at  Quissac 
spoke  from  its  mother's  arms,  agitated  and  sob- 
bing, distinctly  and  with  a  loud  voice."  Mar- 
shal Villars  has  seen  a  town  where  all  the 
women  "seemed  possessed  by  the  devil,"  and 
had  trembling  fits,  and  uttered  prophecies  pub- 
licly upon  the  streets.  A  prophetess  of  Vivarais 
was  hanged  at  Montpellier  because  blood  flowed 
from  her  eyes  and  nose,  and  she  declared  that 
she  was  weeping  tears  of  blood  for  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  Protestants.  And  it  was  not 
only  women  and  children.  Stalwart  dangerous 
fellows,  used  to  swing  the  sickle  or  to  wield 
the  forest  axe,  were  likewise  shaken  with  strange 
paroxysms,  and  spoke  oracles  with  sobs  and 
streaming  tears.  A  persecution  unsurpassed 
in  violence  had  lasted  near  a  score  of  years, 
and  this  was  the  result  upon  the  persecuted; 
hanging,  burning,  breaking  on  the  wheel,  had 
been  vain;  the  dragoons  had  left  their  hoof- 
marks  over  all  the  country-side ;  there  were  men 
rowing  in  the  galleys,  and  women  pining  in  the 
prisons  of  the  Church;  and  not  a  thought  was 
changed  in  the  heart  of  any  upright  Protestant. 
Now  the  head  and  forefront  of  the  persecution 
— after  Lamoignon  de  Bavile — Frangois  de  Lang- 
lade  du  Chayla  (pronounced  Cheila) ,  Archpriest 
of  the  Cevennes  and  Inspector  of  Missions  in 
the  same  country,  had  a  house  in  which  he  some- 
times dwelt  in  the  town  of  Pont  de  Montvert. 
He  was  a  conscientious  person,  who  seems  to 

313 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

have  been  intended  by  nature  for  a  pirate,  and 
now  fifty-five,  an  age  by  which  a  man  has  learned 
all  the  moderation  of  which  he  is  capable.  A 
missionary  in  his  youth  in  China,  he  there  suf- 
fered martyrdom,  was  left  for  dead,  and  only 
succoured  and  brought  back  to  fife  by  the  charity 
of  a  pariah.  We  must  suppose  the  pariah  de- 
void of  second-sight,  and  not  purposely  malicious 
in  this  act.  Such  an  experience,  it  might  be 
thought,  would  have  cured  a  man  of  the  desire 
to  persecute;  but  the  human  spirit  is  a  thing 
strangely  put  together;  and,  having  been  a 
Christian  martyr,  Du  Chayla  became  a  Christian 
persecutor.  The  Work  of  the  Propagation  of 
the  Faith  went  roundly  forward  in  his  hands. 
His  house  in  Pont  de  Montvert  served  him  as  a 
prison.  There  he  closed  the  hands  of  his  pris- 
oners upon  live  coal,  and  plucked  out  the  hairs 
of  their  beard,  to  convince  them  that  they  were 
deceived  in  their  opinions.  And  yet  had  not 
he  himself  tried  and  proved  the  inefficacy  of  these 
carnal  arguments  among  the  Buddhists  in  China? 
Not  only  was  life  made  intolerable  in  Langue- 
doc,  but  flight  was  rigidly  forbidden.  One 
Massip,  a  muleteer,  and  well  acquainted  with 
the  mountain-paths,  had  already  guided  several 
troops  of  fugitives  in  safety  to  Geneva;  and  on 
him,  with  another  convoy,  consisting  mostly 
of  women  dressed  as  men,  Du  Chayla,  in  an  evil 
hour  for  himself,  laid  his  hands.  The  Sunday 
following,  there  was  a  conventicle  of  Protestants 

314 


PONT  DE  MONTVERT 

in  the  woods  of  Altefage  upon  Mont  Bouges; 
where  there  stood  up  one  Seguier — Spirit  Seguier, 
as  his  companions  called  him — a  wool-carder, 
tall,  black-faced,  and  toothless,  but  a  man  full 
of  prophecy.  He  declared,  in  the  name  of  God, 
that  the  time  for  submission  had  gone  by,  and 
they  must  betake  themselves  to  arms  for  the 
deliverance  of  their  brethren  and  the  destruction 
of  the  priests. 

The  next  night,  24th  July,  1702,  a  sound  dis- 
turbed the  Inspector  of  Missions  as  he  sat  in  his 
prison-house  at  Pont  de  Montvert;  the  voices 
of  many  men  upraised  in  psalmody  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  through  the  town.  It  was  ten  at 
night;  he  had  his  court  about  him,  priests, 
soldiers,  and  servants,  to  the  number  of  twelve 
or  fifteen;  and  now  dreading  the  insolence  of  a 
conventicle  below  his  very  windows,  he  ordered 
forth  his  soldiers  to  report.  But  the  psaln> 
singers  were  already  at  his  door,  fifty  strong, 
led  by  the  inspired  Seguier,  and  breathing  death. 
To  their  summons,  the  archpriest  made  answer 
like  a  stout  old  persecutor,  and  bade  his  garrison 
fire  upon  the  mob.  One  Camisard  (for,  accord- 
ing to  some,  it  was  in  this  night's  work  that  they 
came  by  the  name)  fell  at  this  discharge;  his 
comrades  burst  in  the  door  with  hatchets  and  a 
beam  of  wood,  overran  the  lower  story  of  the 
house,  set  free  the  prisoners,  and  finding  one  of 
them  in  the  vine,  a  sort  of  Scavenger's  Daughter 
of  the  place  and  period,  redoubled  in  fury  against 

315 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Du  Chayla,  and  sought  by  repeated  assaults  to 
carry  the  upper  floors.  But  he,  on  his  side,  had 
given  absolution  to  his  men,  and  they  bravely 
held  the  staircase. 

"Children  of  God,"  cried  the  prophet,  "hold 
your  hands.  Let  us  burn  the  house,  with  the 
priest  and  the  satellites  of  Baal." 

The  fire  caught  readily.  Out  of  an  upper 
window  Du  Chayla  and  his  men  lowered  them- 
selves into  the  garden  by  means  of  knotted 
sheets;  some  escaped  across  the  river  under  the 
bullets  of  the  insurgents;  but  the  archpriest 
himself  fell,  broke  his  thigh,  and  could  only 
crawl  into  the  hedge.  What  were  his  reflections 
as  this  second  martyrdom  drew  near?  A  poor, 
brave,  besotted,  hateful  man,  who  had  done  his 
duty  resolutely  according  to  his  light  both  in 
the  Cevennes  and  China.  He  found  at  least 
one  telling  word  to  say  in  his  defence;  for  when 
the  roof  fell  in  and  the  upbursting  flames  dis- 
covered his  retreat,  and  they  came  and  drag- 
ged him  to  the  public  place  of  the  town,  raging 
and  calling  him  damned —  "If  I  be  damned," 
said  he,  "why  should  you  also  damn  yourselves?" 

Here  was  a  good  reason  for  the  last ;  but  in  the 
course  of  his  inspectorship  he  had  given  many 
stronger  which  all  told  in  a  contrary  direction; 
and  these  he  was  now  to  hear.  One  by  one, 
Seguier  first,  the  Camisards  drew  near  and  stab- 
bed him.  "This,"  they  said,  "is  for  my  father 
broken  on  the  wheel.  This  for  my  brother  in 

316 


PONT  DE  MONTVERT 

the  galleys.  That  for  my  mother  or  my  sister 
imprisoned  in  your  cursed  convents."  Each 
gave  his  blow  and  his  reason;  and  then  all 
kneeled  and  sang  psalms  around  the  body  till 
the  dawn.  With  the  dawn,  still  singing,  they 
defiled  away  towards  Frugeres,  farther  up  the 
Tarn,  to  pursue  the  work  of  vengeance,  leaving 
Du  Chayla's  prison-house  in  ruins,  and  his  body 
pierced  with  two-and-fifty  wounds  upon  the 
public  place. 

'T  is  a  wild  night's  work,  with  its  accompani- 
ment of  psalms ;  and  it  seems  as  if  a  psalm  must 
always  have  a  sound  of  threatening  in  that  town 
upon  the  Tarn.  But  the  story  does  not  end, 
even  so  far  as  concerns  Pont  de  Montvert,  with 
the  departure  of  the  Camisards.  The  career 
of  Seguier  was  brief  and  bloody.  Two  more 
priests  and  a  whole  family  at  Ladeveze,  from  the 
father  to  the  servants,  fell  by  his  hand  or  by  his 
orders ;  and  yet  he  was  but  a  day  or  two  at  large, 
and  restrained  all  the  time  by  the  presence  of 
the  soldiery.  Taken  at  length  by  a  famous 
soldier  of  fortune,  Captain  Poul,  he  appeared 
unmoved  before  his  judges. 

"Your  name?"  they  asked. 

"Pierre  Seguier." 

"Why  are  you  called  Spirit?" 

"Because  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  with  me." 

"Your  domicile?" 

"Lately  in  the  desert,  and  soon  in  heaven." 

"Have  you  no  remorse  for  your  crimes?" 
317 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

"I  have  committed  none.  My  soul  is  like  a 
garden  full  of  shelter  and  of  fountains." 

At  Pont  de  Montvert.  on  the  12th  of  August. 
he  had  his  right  hand  stricken  from  his  body, 
and  was  burned  alive.  -And  his  soul  was  like 
a  garden?  So  perhaps  was  the  soul  of  Du 
Chayla.  the  Christian  martyr.  -And  perhaps 
if  you  could  read  in  my  soul,  or  I  could  read  in 
yours,  our  own  composure  might  seem  little 
less  surprising. 

Du  Chayla's  house  still  stands,  with  a  new 
roof,  beside  one  of  the  bridges  of  the  town; 
and  if  you  are  curious  you  may  see  the  terrace- 
garden  into  which  he  dropped. 


318 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

ANEW  road  leads  from  Pont  de  Montvert 
to  Florae  by  the  valley  of  the  Tarn;  a 
smooth  sandy  ledge,  it  runs  about  half-way 
between  the  summit  of  the  cliffs  and  the  river 
in  the  bottom  of  the  valley ;  and  I  went  in  and 
out,  as  I  followed  it,  from  bays  of  shadow  into 
promontories  of  afternoon  sun.  This  was  a 
pass  like  that  of  Killiecrankie;  a  deep  turning 
gully  in  the  hills,  with  the  Tarn  making  a  won- 
derful hoarse  uproar  far  below,  and  craggy  sum- 
mits standing  in  the  sunshine  high  above.  A 
thin  fringe  of  ash-trees  ran  about  the  hill-tops, 
like  ivy  on  a  ruin;  but  on  the  lower  slopes  and 
far  up  every  glen  the  Spanish  chestnut-trees 
stood  each  four-square  to  heaven  under  its 
tented  foliage.  Some  were  planted  each  on  its 
own  terrace,  no  larger  than  a  bed ;  some,  trusting 
in  their  roots,  found  strength  to  grow  and 
prosper  and  be  straight  and  large  upon  the 
rapid  slopes  of  the  valley;  others,  where  there 
was  a  margin  to  the  river,  stood  marshalled  in 
a  line  and  mighty  like  cedars  of  Lebanon.  Yet 

319 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

even  where  they  grew  most  thickly  they  were 
not  to  be  thought  of  as  a  wood,  but  as  a  herd 
of  stalwart  individuals;  and  the  dome  of  each 
tree  stood  forth  separate  and  large,  and  as  it  were 
a  little  hill,  from  among  the  domes  of  its  com- 
panions. They  gave  forth  a  faint  sweet  per- 
fume which  pervaded  the  air  of  the  afternoon; 
autumn  had  put  tints  of  gold  and  tarnish  in 
the  green;  and  the  sun  so  shone  through  and 
kindled  the  broad  foliage,  that  each  chestnut 
was  relieved  against  another,  not  in  shadow,  but 
in  light.  A  humble  sketcher  here  laid  down 
his  pencil  in  despair. 

I  wish  I  could  convey  a  notion  of  the  growth 
of  these  noble  trees;  of  how  they  strike  out 
boughs  like  the  oak,  and  trail  sprays  of  drooping 
foliage  like  the  willow;  of  how  they  stand  on 
upright  fluted  columns  like  the  pillars  of  a 
church;  or  like  the  olive,  from  the  most  shat- 
tered bole  can  put  out  smooth  and  youthful 
shoots,  and  begin  a  new  life  upon  the  ruins  of 
the  old.  Thus  they  partake  of  the  nature  of 
many  different  trees ;  and  even  their  prickly  top- 
knots, seen  near  at  hand  against  the  sky,  have 
a  certain  palm-like  air  that  impresses  the  im- 
agination. But  their  individuality,  although 
compounded  of  so  many  elements,  is  but  the 
richer  and  the  more  original.  And  to  look  down 
upon  a  level  filled  with  these  knolls  of  foliage, 
or  to  see  a  clan  of  old  unconquerable  chestnuts 
cluster  "like  herded  elephants"  upon  the  spur 

320 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

of  a  mountain,  is  to  rise  to  higher  thoughts 
of  the  powers  that  are  in  Nature. 

Between  Modestine's  laggard  humour  and 
the  beauty  of  the  scene,  we  made  little  progress 
all  that  afternoon;  and  at  last  finding  the  sun, 
although  still  far  from  setting,  was  already  be- 
ginning to  desert  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Tarn, 
I  began  to  cast  about  for  a  place  to  camp  in. 
This  was  not  easy  to  find;  the  terraces  were  too 
narrow,  and  the  ground,  where  it  was  unter- 
raced,  was  usually  too  steep  for  a  man  to  lie 
upon.  I  should  have  slipped  all  night,  and 
awakened  towards  morning  with  my  feet  or 
my  head  in  the  river. 

After  perhaps  a  mile,  I  saw,  some  sixty  feet 
above  the  road,  a  little  plateau  large  enough 
to  hold  my  sack,  and  securely  parapeted  by 
the  trunk  of  an  aged  and  enormous  chestnut. 
Thither,  with  infinite  trouble,  I  goaded  and 
kicked  the  reluctant  Modestine,  and  there  I 
hastened  to  unload  her.  There  was  only  room 
for  myself  upon  the  plateau,  and  I  had  to  go 
nearly  as  high  again  before  I  found  so  much  as 
standing  room  for  the  ass.  It  was  on  a  heap 
of  rolling  stones,  on  an  artificial  terrace,  cer- 
tainly not  five  feet  square  in  all.  Here  I  tied 
her  to  a  chestnut,  and  having  given  her  corn  and 
bread  and  made  a  pile  of  chestnut-leaves,  of 
which  I  found  her  greedy,  I  descended  once  more 
to  my  own  encampment. 

The  position  was  unpleasantly  exposed.  One 
321 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

or  two  carts  went  by  upon  the  road;  and  as  long 
as  daylight  lasted  I  concealed  myself,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  hunted  Camisard,  behind  my  forti- 
fication of  vast  chestnut  trunk ;  for  I  was  passion- 
ately afraid  of  discovery  and  the  visit  of  jocular 
persons  in  the  night.  Moreover,  I  saw  that  I 
must  be  early  awake ;  for  these  chestnut  gardens 
had  been  the  scene  of  industry  no  further  gone 
than  on  the  day  before.  The  slope  was  strewn 
with  lopped  branches,  and  here  and  there  a 
great  package  of  leaves  was  propped  against  a 
trunk;  for  even  the  leaves  are  serviceable,  and 
the  peasants  use  them  in  winter  by  way  of  fodder 
for  their  animals.  I  picked  a  meal  in  fear  and 
trembling,  half  lying  down  to  hide  myself  from 
the  road;  and  I  daresay  I  was  as  much  concerned 
as  if  I  had  been  a  scout  from  Joani's  band  above 
upon  the  Lozere  or  from  Salomon's  across  the 
Tarn  in  the  old  times  of  psalm-singing  and  blood. 
Or,  indeed,  perhaps  more;  for  the  Camisards 
had  a  remarkable  confidence  in  God;  and  a  tale 
comes  back  into  my  memory  of  how  the  Count 
of  Gevaudan,  riding  with  a  party  of  dragoons 
and  a  notary  at  his  saddlebow  to  enforce  the  oath 
of  fidelity  in  all  the  country  hamlets,  entered  a 
valley  in  the  woods,  and  found  Cavalier  and  his 
men  at  dinner,  gaily  seated  on  the  grass,  and 
their  hats  crowned  with  box-tree  garlands,  while 
fifteen  women  washed  their  linen  in  the  stream. 
Such  was  a  field  festival  in  1703 ;  at  that  date  An- 
tony Watteau  would  be  painting  similar  subjects. 

322 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

This  was  a  very  different  camp  from  that  of 
the  night  before  in  the  cool  and  silent  pine  woods. 
It  was  warm  and  even  stifling  in  the  valley. 
The  shrill  song  of  frogs,  like  the  tremolo  note  of 
a  whistle  with  a  pea  in  it,  rang  up  from  the  river- 
side before  the  sun  was  down.  In  the  growing 
dusk,  faint  rustling  began  to  run  to  and  fro 
among  the  fallen  leaves ;  from  time  to  time  a  faint 
chirping  or  cheeping  noise  would  fall  upon  my 
ear;  and  from  time  to  time  I  thought  I  could  see 
the  movement  of  something  swift  and  indistinct 
between  the  chestnuts.  A  profusion  of  large 
ants  swarmed  upon  the  ground;  bats  whisked 
by,  and  mosquitoes  droned  overhead.  The 
long  boughs  with  their  bunches  of  leaves  hung 
against  the  sky  like  garlands ;  and  those  immedi- 
ately above  and  around  me  had  somewhat  the 
air  of  a  trellis  which  should  have  been  wrecked 
and  half  overthrown  in  a  gale  of  wind. 

Sleep  for  a  long  time  fled  my  eyelids;  and  just 
as  I  was  beginning  to  feel  quiet  stealing  over 
my  limbs,  and  settling  densely  on  my  mind,  a 
noise  at  my  head  startled  me  broad  awake  again, 
and,  I  will  frankly  confess  it,  brought  my  heart 
into  my  mouth.  It  was  such  a  noise  as  a  per- 
son would  make  scratching  loudly  with  a  finger- 
nail; it  came  from  under  the  knapsack  which 
served  me  for  a  pillow,  and  it  was  thrice  re- 
peated before  I  had  time  to  sit  up  and  turn  about. 
Nothing  was  to  be  seen,  nothing  more  was  to  be 
heard,  but  a  few  of  these  mysterious  rustlings 

323 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

far  and  near,  and  the  ceaseless  accompaniment 
of  the  river  and  the  frogs.  I  learned  next  day 
that  the  chestnut  gardens  are  infested  by  rats; 
rustling,  chirping,  and  scraping  were  probably 
all  due  to  these;  but  the  puzzle,  for  the  moment, 
was  insoluble,  and  I  had  to  compose  myself  for 
sleep,  as  best  I  could,  in  wondering  uncertainty 
about  my  neighbours. 

I  was  wakened  in  the  grey  of  the  morning 
(Monday,  30th  September)  by  the  sound  of 
footsteps  not  far  off  upon  the  stones,  and  open- 
ing my  eyes,  I  beheld  a  peasant  going  by  among 
the  chestnuts  by  a  footpath  that  I  had  not  hith- 
erto observed.  He  turned  his  head  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  and  disappeared  in  a  few 
strides  among  the  foliage.  Here  was  an  escape ! 
But  it  was  plainly  more  than  time  to  be  moving. 
The  peasantry  were  abroad;  scarce  less  terrible 
to  me  in  my  nondescript  position  than  the  sol- 
diers of  Captain  Poul  to  an  undaunted  Camisard. 
I  fed  Modestine  with  what  haste  I  could;  but 
as  I  was  returning  to  my  sack,  I  saw  a  man 
and  a  boy  come  down  the  hillside  in  a  direction 
crossing  mine.  They  unintelligibly  hailed  me, 
and  I  replied  with  inarticulate  but  cheerful 
sounds,  and  hurried  forward  to  get  into  my 
gaiters. 

The  pair,  who  seemed  to  be  father  and  son, 
came  slowly  up  to  the  plateau,  and  stood  close 
beside  me  for  some  time  in  silence.  The  bed 
was  open,  and  I  saw  with  regret  my  revolver 

324 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

lying  patently  disclosed  on  the  blue  wool.  At 
last,  after  they  had  looked  me  all  over,  and  the 
silence  had  grown  laughably  embarrassing,  the 
man  demanded  in  what  seemed  unfriendly 
tones : — 

"You  have  slept  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.     "As  you  see." 

"Why?  "he  asked. 

"My  faith!"  I  answered  lightly,  "I  was  tired." 

He  next  inquired  where  I  was  going  and  what 
I  had  had  for  dinner;  and  then,  without  the  least 
transition,  "C'est  bien,"  he  added.  "Come 
along."  And  he  and  his  son,  without  another 
word,  turned  off  to  the  next  chestnut-tree  but 
one,  which  they  set  to  pruning.  The  thing  had 
passed  off  more  simply  than  I  hoped.  He  was 
a  grave,  respectable  man;  and  his  unfriendly 
voice  did  not  imply  that  he  thought  he  was 
speaking  to  a  criminal,  but  merely  to  an  inferior. 

I  was  soon  on  the  road,  nibbling  a  cake  of 
chocolate  and  seriously  occupied  with  a  case  of 
conscience.  Was  I  to  pay  for  my  night's  lodg- 
ing? I  had  slept  ill,  the  bed  was  full  of  fleas  in 
the  shape  of  ants,  there  was  no  water  in  the  room, 
the  very  dawn  had  neglected  to  call  me  in  the 
morning.  I  might  have  missed  a  train,  had  there 
been  any  in  the  neighbourhood  to  catch.  Clearly 
I  was  dissatisfied  with  my  entertainment;  and 
I  decided  I  should  not  pay  unless  I  met  a  beggar. 

The  valley  looked  even  lovelier  by  morning; 
and  soon  the  road  descended  to  the  level  of  the 

325 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

river.  Here,  in  a  place  where  many  straight 
and  prosperous  chestnuts  stood  together,  making 
an  aisle  upon  a  swarded  terrace,  I  made  my 
morning  toilette  in  the  water  of  the  Tarn.  It 
was  marvellously  clear,  thriUingly  cool ;  the  soap- 
suds disappeared  as  if  by  magic  in  the  swift 
current,  and  the  white  boulders  gave  one  a 
model  for  cleanliness.  To  wash  in  one  of  God's 
rivers  in  the  open  air  seems  to  me  a  sort  of  cheer- 
ful solemnity  or  semi-pagan  act  of  worship.  To 
dabble  among  dishes  in  a  bedroom  may  perhaps 
make  clean  the  body;  but  the  imagination  takes 
no  share  in  such  a  cleansing.  I  went  on  with  a 
light  and  peaceful  heart  and  sang  psalms  to 
the  spiritual  ear  as  I  advanced. 

Suddenly  up  came  an  old  woman,  who  point- 
blank  demanded  alms. 

"Good!"  thought  I;  "here  comes  the  waiter 
with  the  bill." 

And  I  paid  for  my  night's  lodging  on  the  spot. 
Take  it  how  you  please,  but  this  was  the  first 
and  the  last  beggar  that  I  met  with  during  all 
my  tour. 

A  step  or  two  farther  I  was  overtaken  by  an 
old  man  in  a  brown  nightcap,  clear-eyed, 
weather-beaten,  with  a  faint,  excited  smile.  A 
little  girl  followed  him,  driving  two  sheep  and  a 
goat;  but  she  kept  in  our  wake,  while  the  old 
man  walked  beside  me  and  talked  about  the 
morning  and  the  valley.  It  was  not  much  past 
six;  and  for  healthy  people  who  have  slept 

326 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

enough,  that  is  an  hour  of  expansion  and  of  open 
and  trustful  talk. 

" Connaissez-vous  le  Seigneur?"  he  said  at 
length. 

I  asked  him  what  Seigneur  he  meant;  but  he 
only  repeated  the  question  with  more  emphasis 
and  a  look  in  his  eyes  denoting  hope  and  interest. 

"Ah!"  said  I,  pointing  upwards,  "I  under- 
stand you  now.  Yes,  I  know  Him;  He  is  the 
best  of  acquaintances." 

The  old  man  said  he  was  delighted.  "Hold," 
he  added,  striking  his  bosom;  "it  makes  me 
happy  here."  There  were  a  few  who  knew  the 
Lord  in  these  valleys,  he  went  on  to  tell  me; 
not  many,  but  a  few.  "Many  are  called,"  he 
quoted,  "and  few  chosen." 

"My  father,"  said  I,  "it  is  not  easy  to  say 
who  know  the  Lord ;  and  it  is  none  of  our  busi- 
ness. Protestants  and  Catholics,  and  even  those 
who  worship  stones,  may  know  him  and  be  known 
by  Him,  for  He  has  made  all." 

I  did  not  know  I  was  so  good  a  preacher. 

The  old  man  assured  me  he  thought  as  I  did, 
and  repeated  his  expressions  of  pleasure  at  meet- 
ing me.  "We  are  so  few,"  he  said.  "They 
call  us  Moravians  here;  but  down  in  the  depart- 
ment of  Gar d,  where  there  are  also  a  good  num- 
ber, they  are  called  Derbists,  after  an  English 
pastor." 

I  began  to  understand  that  I  was  figuring, 
in  questionable  taste,  as  a  member  of  some 

327 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

sect  to  me  unknown ;  but  I  was  more  pleased  with 
the  pleasure  of  my  companion  than  embarrassed 
by  my  own  equivocal  position.  Indeed  I  can 
see  no  dishonesty  in  not  avowing  a  difference; 
and  especially  in  these  high  matters,  where  we 
have  all  a  sufficient  assurance  that,  whoever 
may  be  in  the  wrong,  we  ourselves  are  not  com- 
pletely in  the  right.  The  truth  is  much  talked 
about;  but  this  old  man  in  a  brown  nightcap 
showed  himself  so  simple,  sweet,  and  friendly 
that  I  am  not  unwilling  to  profess  myself  his 
convert.  He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  Ply- 
mouth Brother.  Of  what  that  involves  in  the 
way  of  doctrine  I  have  no  idea  nor  the  time  to 
inform  myself;  but  I  know  right  well  that  we  are 
all  embarked  upon  a  troublesome  world,  the 
children  of  one  Father,  striving  in  many  essen- 
tial points  to  do  and  to  become  the  same.  And 
although  it  was  somewhat  in  a  mistake  that  he 
shook  hands  with  me  so  often  and  showed  him- 
self so  ready  to  receive  my  words,  that  was  a 
mistake  of  the  truth-finding  sort.  For  charity 
begins  blindfold;  and  only  through  a  series  of 
similar  misapprehensions  rises  at  length  into  a 
settled  principle  of  love  and  patience,  and 
a  firm  belief  in  all  our  fellow-men.  If  I  deceived 
this  good  old  man,  in  the  like  manner  I  would 
willingly  go  on  to  deceive  others.  And  if  ever 
at  length,  out  of  our  separate  and  sad  ways,  we 
should  all  come  together  into  one  common  house, 
I  have  a  hope,  to  which  I  cling  dearly,  that  my 

328 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

mountain  Plymouth  Brother  will  hasten  to 
shake  hands  with  me  again. 

Thus,  talking  like  Christian  and  Faithful 
by  the  way,  he  and  I  came  down  upon  a  hamlet 
by  the  Tarn.  It  was  but  a  humble  place,  called 
La  Vernede,  with  less  than  a  dozen  houses,  and  a 
Protestant  chapel  on  a  knoll.  Here  he  dwelt; 
and  here,  at  the  inn,  I  ordered  my  breakfast. 
The  inn  was  kept  by  an  agreeable  young  man, 
a  stone-breaker  on  the  road,  and  his  sister,  a 
pretty  and  engaging  girl.  The  village  school- 
master dropped  in  to  speak  with  the  stranger. 
And  these  were  all  Protestants — a  fact  which 
pleased  me  more  than  I  should  have  expected; 
and,  what  pleased  me  still  more,  they  seemed 
all  upright  and  simple  people.  The  Plymouth 
Brother  hung  round  me  with  a  sort  of  yearning 
interest,  and  returned  at  least  thrice  to  make 
sure  I  was  enjoying  my  meal.  His  behaviour 
touched  me  deeply  at  the  time,  and  even  now 
moves  me  in  recollection.  He  feared  to  intrude, 
but  he  would  not  willingly  forego  one  moment 
of  my  society;  and  he  seemed  never  weary  of 
shaking  me  by  the  hand. 

When  all  the  rest  had  drifted  off  to  their  day's 
work,  I  sat  for  near  half  an  hour  with  the  young 
mistress  of  the  house,  who  talked  pleasantly 
over  her  seam  of  the  chestnut  harvest,  and  the 
beauties  of  the  Tarn,  and  old  family  affections, 
broken  up  when  young  folk  go  from  home,  yet 
still  subsisting.  Hers,  I  am  sure,  was  a  sweet 

329 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

nature,  with  a  country  plainness  and  much  deli- 
cacy underneath;  and  he  who  takes  her  to  his 
heart  will  doubtless  be  a  fortunate  young  man. 
The  valley  below  La  Vernede  pleased  me  more 
and  more  as  I  went  forward.  Now  the  hills 
approached  from  either  hand,  naked  and  crum- 
bling, and  walled  in  the  river  between  cliffs ;  and 
now  the  valley  widened  and  became  green. 
The  road  led  me  past  the  old  castle  of  Miral 
on  a  steep;  past  a  battlemented  monastery, 
long  since  broken  up  and  turned  into  a  church 
and  parsonage;  and  past  a  cluster  of  black  roofs, 
the  village  of  Cocures,  sitting  among  vineyards 
and  meadows  and  orchards  thick  with  red  apples, 
and  where,  along  the  highway,  they  were 
knocking  down  walnuts  from  the  roadside  trees, 
and  gathering  them  in  sacks  and  baskets. 
The  hills,  however  much  the  vale  might  open, 
were  still  tall  and  bare,  with  cliffy  battlements 
and  here  and  there  a  pointed  summit;  and  the 
Tarn  still  rattled  through  the  stones  with  a 
mountain  noise.  I  had  been  led  by  bagmen  of  a 
picturesque  turn  of  mind,  to  expect  a  horrific 
country  after  the  heart  of  Byron;  but  to  my 
Scottish  eyes  it  seemed  smiling  and  plentiful, 
as  the  weather  still  gave  an  impression  of  high 
summer  to  my  Scottish  body;  although  the 
chestnuts  were  already  picked  out  by  the 
autumn,  and  the  poplars,  that  here  began  to 
mingle  with  them,  had  turned  into  pale  gold 
against  the  approach  of  winter. 

330 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 

There  was  something  in  this  landscape,  smil- 
ing although  wild,  that  explained  to  me  the 
spirit  of  the  Southern  Covenanters.  Those  who 
took  to  the  hills  for  conscience'  sake  in  Scotland 
had  all  gloomy  and  bedevilled  thoughts;  for 
once  that  they  received  God's  comfort  they 
would  be  twice  engaged  with  Satan;  but  the 
Camisards  had  only  bright  and  supporting 
visions.  They  dealt  much  more  in  blood,  both 
given  and  taken;  yet  I  find  no  obsession  of  the 
Evil  One  in  their  records.  With  a  light  con- 
science, they  pursued  their  life  in  these  rough 
times  and  circumstances.  The  soul  of  Seguier, 
let  us  not  forget,  was  like  a  garden.  They  knew 
they  were  on  God's  side,  with  a  knowledge  that 
has  no  parallel  among  the  Scots;  for  the  Scots, 
although  they  might  be  certain  of  the  cause, 
could  never  rest  confident  of  the  person. 

"We  flew,"  says  one  old  Camisard,  "when  we 
heard  the  sound  of  psalm-singing,  we  flew  as  if 
with  wings.  We  felt  within  us  an  animating 
ardour,  a  transporting  desire.  The  feeling  can- 
not be  expressed  in  words.  It  is  a  thing  that 
must  have  been  experienced  to  be  understood. 
However  weary  we  might  be,  we  thought  no 
more  of  our  weariness  and  grew  light,  so  soon  as 
the  psalms  fell  upon  our  ears." 

The  valley  of  the  Tarn  and  the  people  whom 
I  met  at  La  Vernede  not  only  explain  to  me  this 
passage,  but  the  twenty  years  of  suffering  which 
those,  who  were  so  stiff  and  so  bloody  when  once 

331 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

they  betook  themselves  to  war,  endured  with 
the  meekness  of  children  and  the  constancy  of 
saints  and  peasants. 


332 


FLORAC 

ON  a  branch  of  the  Tarn  stands  Florae,  the 
seat  of  a  sub-prefecture,  with  an  old  castle, 
an  alley  of  planes,  many  quaint  street-corners, 
and  a  live  fountain  welling  from  the  hill.  It  is 
notable,  besides,  for  handsome  women,  and  as 
one  of  the  two  capitals,  Alais  being  the  other, 
of  the  country  of  the  Camisards. 

The  landlord  of  the  inn  took  me,  after  I  had 
eaten,  to  an  adjoining  cafe,  where  I,  or  rather 
my  journey,  became  the  topic  of  the  afternoon. 
Every  one  had  some  suggestion  for  my  guid- 
ance; and  the  sub-prefectorial  map  was  fetched 
from  the  sub-prefecture  itself,  and  much  thumbed 
among  coffee-cups  and  glasses  of  liqueur.  Most 
of  these  kind  advisers  were  Protestant,  though 
I  observed  that  Protestant  and  Catholic  inter- 
mingled in  a  very  easy  manner;  and  it  surprised 
me  to  see  what  a  lively  memory  still  subsisted 
of  the  religious  war.  Among  the  hills  of  the 
south-west,  by  Mauchline,  Cumnock,  or  Car- 
sphairn,  in  isolated  farms  or  in  the  manse, 
serious  Presbyterian  people  still  recall  the  days 
of  the  great  persecution,  and  the  graves  of  local 

333 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

martyrs  are  still  piously  regarded.  But  in 
towns  and  among  the  so-called  better  classes, 
I  fear  that  these  old  doings  have  become  an 
idle  tale.  If  you  met  a  mixed  company  in  the 
King's  Arms  at  Wigtown,  it  is  not  likely  that 
the  talk  would  run  on  Covenanters.  Nay,  at 
Muirkirk  of  Glenluce,  I  found  the  beadle's  wife 
had  not  so  much  as  heard  of  Prophet  Peden. 
But  these  Cevenols  were  proud  of  their  ancestors 
in  quite  another  sense ;  the  war  was  their  chosen 
topic;  its  exploits  were  their  own  patent  of 
nobility ;  and  where  a  man  or  a  race  has  had  but 
one  adventure,  and  that  heroic,  we  must  expect 
and  pardon  some  prolixity  of  reference.  They 
told  me  the  country  was  still  full  of  legends 
hitherto  uncollected;  I  heard  from  them  about 
Cavalier's  descendants — not  direct  descendants, 
be  it  understood,  but  only  cousins  or  nephews — 
who  were  still  prosperous  people  in  the  scene  of 
the  boy-general's  exploits;  and  one  farmer  had 
seen  the  bones  of  old  combatants  dug  up  into 
the  air  of  an  afternoon  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
in  a  field  where  the  ancestors  had  fought,  and 
the  great-grandchildren  were  peaceably  ditching. 
Later  in  the  day  one  of  the  Protestant  pastors 
was  so  good  as  to  visit  me:  a  young  man,  intel- 
ligent and  polite,  with  whom  I  passed  an  hour 
or  two  in  talk.  Florae,  he  told  me,  is  part 
Protestant,  part  Catholic;  and  the  difference  in 
religion  is  usually  doubled  by  the  difference  in 
politics.  You  may  judge  of  my  surprise,  com- 

334 


FLORAC 

ing  as  I  did  from  such  a  babbling  purgatorial 
Poland  of  a  place  as  Monastier,  when  I  learned 
that  the  population  lived  together  on  very  quiet 
terms;  and  there  was  even  an  exchange  of  hos- 
pitalities between  households  thus  doubly  sepa- 
rated. Black  Camisard  and  White  Camisard, 
militiaman  and  Miquelet  and  dragoon,  Protest- 
ant prophet  and  Catholic  cadet  of  the  White 
Cross,  they  had  all  been  sabring  and  shooting, 
burning,  pillaging  and  murdering,  their  hearts 
hot  with  indignant  passion;  and  here,  after  a 
hundred  and  seventy  years,  Protestant  is  still 
Protestant,  Catholic  still  Catholic,  in  mutual 
toleration  and  mild  amity  of  life.  But  the 
race  of  man,  like  that  indomitable  nature  whence 
it  sprang,  has  medicating  virtues  of  its  own ;  the 
years  and  seasons  bring  various  harvests;  the 
sun  returns  after  the  rain;  and  mankind  outlives 
secular  animosities,  as  a  single  man  awakens 
from  the  passions  of  a  day.  We  judge  our 
ancestors  from  a  more  divine  position;  and  the 
dust  being  a  little  laid  with  several  centuries, 
we  can  see  both  sides  adorned  with  human 
virtues  and  fighting  with  a  show  of  right. 

I  have  never  thought  it  easy  to  be  just,  and 
find  it  daily  even  harder  than  I  thought.  I 
own  I  met  these  Protestants  with  delight  and  a 
sense  of  coming  home.  I  was  accustomed  to 
speak  their  language,  in  another  and  deeper 
sense  of  the  word  than  that  which  distinguishes 
between  French  and  English;  for  the  true  Babel 

335 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

is  a  divergence  upon  morals.  And  hence  I  could 
hold  more  free  communication  with  the  Protes- 
tants, and  judge  them  more  justly,  than  the 
Catholics.  Father  ApoUinaris  may  pair  off 
with  my  mountain  Plymouth  Brother  as  two 
guileless  and  devout  old  men;  yet  I  ask  myself 
if  I  had  as  ready  a  feeling  for  the  virtues  of  the 
Trappist;  or  had  I  been  a  Catholic,  if  I  should 
have  felt  so  warmly  to  the  dissenter  of  La 
Yernede.  With  the  first  I  was  on  terms  of 
mere  forbearance;  but  with  the  other,  although 
only  on  a  misunderstanding  and  by  keeping 
on  selected  points,  it  was  still  possible  to  hold 
converse  and  exchange  some  honest  thoughts. 
In  this  world  of  imperfection  we  gladly  welcome 
even  partial  intimacies.  If  we  find  but  one  to 
whom  we  can  speak  out  of  our  heart  freely,  with 
whom  we  can  walk  in  love  and  simplicity  with- 
out dissimulation,  we  have  no  ground  of  quarrel 
with  the  world  or  God. 


336 


IN  THE  VALLEY   OF  THE 
MIMENTE 

ON  Tuesday,  1st  October,  we  left  Florae  late 
in  the  afternoon,  a  tired  donkey  and  tired 
donkey-driver.  A  little  way  up  the  Tarnon, 
a  covered  bridge  of  wood  introduced  us  into 
the  valley  of  the  Mimente.  Steep  rocky  red 
mountains  overhung  the  stream;  great  oaks  and 
chestnuts  grew  upon  the  slopes  or  in  stony 
terraces ;  here  and  there  was  a  red  field  of  millet 
or  a  few  apple-trees  studded  with  red  apples; 
and  the  road  passed  hard  by  two  black  hamlets, 
one  with  an  old  castle  atop  to  please  the  heart 
of  the  tourist. 

It  was  difficult  here  again  to  find  a  spot  fit  for 
my  encampment.  Even  under  the  oaks  and 
chestnuts  the  ground  had  not  only  a  very  rapid 
slope,  but  was  heaped  with  loose  stones;  and 
where  there  was  no  timber  the  hills  descended 
to  the  stream  in  a  red  precipice  tufted  with 
heather.  The  sun  had  left  the  highest  peak  in 
front  of  me,  and  the  valley  was  full  of  the  lowing 
sound  of  herdsmen's  horns  as  they  recalled  the 
flocks  into  the  stable,  when  I  spied  a  bight  of 

337 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

meadow  some  way  below  the  roadway  in  an 
angle  of  the  river.  Thither  I  descended,  and, 
tying  Modestine  provisionally  to  a  tree,  pro- 
ceeded to  investigate  the  neighbourhood.  A 
grey  pearly  evening  shadow  filled  the  glen; 
objects  at  a  little  distance  grew  indistinct  and 
melted  bafflingly  into  each  other;  and  the  dark- 
ness was  rising  steadily  like  an  exhalation.  I 
approached  a  great  oak  which  grew  in  the 
meadow,  hard  by  the  river's  brink;  when  to  my 
disgust  the  voices  of  children  fell  upon  my  ear, 
and  I  beheld  a  house  round  the  angle  on  the 
other  bank.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  pack  and  be 
gone  again,  but  the  growing  darkness  moved  me 
to  remain.  I  had  only  to  make  no  noise  until 
the  night  was  fairly  come,  and  trust  to  the  dawn 
to  call  me  early  in  the  morning.  But  it  was 
hard  to  be  annoyed  by  neighbours  in  such  a 
great  hotel. 

A  hollow  underneath  the  oak  was  my  bed. 
Before  I  had  fed  Modestine  and  arranged  my 
sack,  three  stars  were  already  brightly  shining, 
and  the  others  were  beginning  dimly  to  appear. 
I  slipped  down  to  the  river,  which  looked  very 
black  among  its  rocks,  to  fill  my  can;  and  dined 
with  a  good  appetite  in  the  dark,  for  I  scrupled 
to  light  a  lantern  while  so  near  a  house.  The 
moon,  which  I  had  seen,  a  pallid  crescent,  all 
afternoon,  faintly  illuminated  the  summit  of 
the  hills,  but  not  a  ray  fell  into  the  bottom  of 
the  glen  where  I  was  lying.  The  oak  rose  before 

338 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MIMENTE 

me  like  a  pillar  of  darkness;  and  overhead  the 
heartsome  stars  were  set  in  the  face  of  the  night. 
No  one  knows  the  stars  who  has  not  slept,  as 
the  French  happily  put  it,  a  la  belle  etoile.  He 
may  know  all  their  names  and  distances  and 
magnitudes,  and  yet  be  ignorant  of  what  alone 
concerns  mankind,  their  serene  and  gladsome 
influence  on  the  mind.  The  greater  part  of 
poetry  is  about  the  stars;  and  very  justly,  for 
they  are  themselves  the  most  classical  of  poets. 
These  same  far-away  worlds,  sprinkled  like 
tapers  or  shaken  together  like  a  diamond  dust 
upon  the  sky,  had  looked  not  otherwise  to 
Roland  or  Cavalier,  when,  in  the  words  of  the 
latter,  they  had  "no  other  tent  but  the  sky,  and 
no  other  bed  than  my  mother  earth." 

All  night  a  strong  wind  blew  up  the  valley, 
and  the  acorns  fell  pattering  over  me  from  the 
oak.  Yet,  on  this  first  night  of  October,  the  air 
was  as  mild  as  May,  and  I  slept  with  the  fur 
thrown  back. 

I  was  much  disturbed  by  the  barking  of  a  dog, 
an  animal  that  I  fear  more  than  any  wolf.  A 
dog  is  vastly  braver,  and  is  besides  supported 
by  the  sense  of  duty.  If  you  kill  a  wolf,  you 
meet  with  encouragement  and  praise;  but  if 
you  kill  a  dog,  the  sacred  rights  of  property 
and  the  domestic  affections  come  clamouring 
round  you  for  redress.  At  the  end  of  a  fagging 
day,  the  sharp,  cruel  note  of  a  dog's  bark  is  in 
itself  a  keen  annoyance;  and  to  a  tramp  like 

339 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

myself,  he  represents  the  sedentary  and  respect- 
able world  in  its  most  hostile  form.  There 
is  something  of  the  clergyman  or  the  lawyer 
about  this  engaging  animal;  and  if  he  were  not 
amenable  to  stones,  the  boldest  man  would 
shrink  from  travelling  afoot.  I  respect  dogs 
much  in  the  domestic  circle ;  but  on  the  highway 
or  sleeping  afield,  I  both  detest  and  fear  them. 

I  was  wakened  next  morning  (Wednesday, 
October  2d)  by  the  same  dog — for  I  knew  his 
bark — making  a  charge  down  the  bank,  and 
then,  seeing  me  sit  up,  retreating  again  with 
great  alacrity.  The  stars  were  not  yet  quite 
extinguished.  The  heaven  was  of  that  enchant- 
ing mild  grey-blue  of  the  early  morn.  A  still 
clear  light  began  to  fall,  and  the  trees  on  the 
hillside  were  outlined  sharply  against  the  sky. 
The  wind  had  veered  more  to  the  north,  and  no 
longer  reached  me  in  the  glen;  but  as  I  was  going 
on  with  my  preparations,  it  drove  a  white  cloud 
very  swiftly  over  the  hill-top;  and  looking  up, 
I  was  surprised  to  see  the  cloud  dyed  with 
gold.  In  these  high  regions  of  the  air,  the  sun 
was  already  shining  as  at  noon.  If  only  the 
clouds  travelled  high  enough,  we  should  see 
the  same  thing  all  night  long.  For  it  is  always 
daylight  in  the  fields  of  space. 

As  I  began  to  go  up  the  valley,  a  draught  of 
wind  came  down  it  out  of  the  seat  of  the  sunrise, 
although  the  clouds  continued  to  run  overhead 
in  an  almost  contrary  direction.  A  few  steps 

340 


THE  VALLEY   OF   THE  MIMENTE 

farther,  and  I  saw  a  whole  hillside  gilded  with 
the  sun;  and  still  a  little  beyond,  between  two 
peaks,  a  centre  of  dazzling  brilliancy  appeared 
floating  in  the  sky,  and  I  was  once  more  face  to 
face  with  the  big  bonfire  that  occupies  the  ker- 
nel of  our  system. 

I  met  but  one  -human  being  that  forenoon,  a 
dark  military-looking  wayfarer,  who  carried  a 
game-bag  on  a  baldric;  but  he  made  a  remark 
that  seems  worthy  of  record.  For  when  I 
asked  him  if  he  were  Protestant  or  Catholic 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "I  make  no  shame  of  my  reli- 
gion. I  am  a  Catholic." 

He  made  no  shame  of  it!  The  phrase  is  a 
piece  of  natural  statistics;  for  it  is  the  language 
of  one  in  a  minority.  I  thought  with  a  smile 
of  Bavile  and  his  dragoons,  and  how  you  may 
ride  rough-shod  over  a  religion  for  a  century, 
and  leave  it  only  the  more  lively  for  the  friction. 
Ireland  is  still  Catholic;  the  Cevennes  still 
Protestant.  It  is  not  a  basketful  of  law-papers, 
nor  the  hoofs  and  pistol-butts  of  a  regiment 
of  horse,  that  can  change  one  tittle  of  a  plough- 
man's thoughts.  Outdoor  rustic  people  have 
not  many  ideas,  but  such  as  they  have  are  hardy 
plants  and  thrive  flourishingly  in  persecution. 
One  who  has  grown  a  long  while  in  the  sweat  of 
laborious  noons,  and  under  the  stars  at  night,  a 
frequenter  of  hills  and  forests,  an  old  honest 
countryman,  has,  in  the  end,  a  sense  of  com- 
munion with  the  powers  of  the  universe,  and 

341 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

amicable  relations  towards  his  God.  Like  my 
mountain  Plymouth  Brother,  he  knows  the 
Lord.  His  religion  does  not  repose  upon  a 
choice  of  logic;  it  is  the  poetry  of  the  man's 
experience,  the  philosophy  of  the  history  of 
his  life.  God,  like  a  great  power,  like  a  great 
shining  sun,  has  appeared  to  this  simple  fellow 
in  the  course  of  years,  and  become  the  ground 
and  essence  of  his  least  reflections ;  and  you  may 
change  creeds  and  dogmas  by  authority,  or  pro- 
claim a  new  religion  with  the  sound  of  trumpets, 
if  you  will;  but  here  is  a  man  who  has  his  own 
thoughts,  and  will  stubbornly  adhere  to  them 
in  good  and  evil.  He  is  a  Catholic,  a  Protestant, 
or  a  Plymouth  Brother,  in  the  same  indefeasible 
sense  that  a  man  is  not  a  woman,  or  a  woman 
not  a  man.  For  he  could  not  vary  from  his 
faith,  unless  he  could  eradicate  all  memory 
of  the  past,  and,  in  a  strict  and  not  a  conven- 
tional meaning,  change  his  mind. 


342 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

I  WAS  now  drawing  near  to  Cassagnas,  a 
cluster  of  black  roofs  upon  the  hillside,  in 
this  wild  valley,  among  chestnut  gardens,  and 
looked  upon  in  the  clear  air  by  many  rocky 
peaks.  The  road  along  the  Mimente  is  yet 
new,  nor  have  the  mountaineers  recovered  their 
surprise  when  the  first  cart  arrived  at  Cassagnas. 
But  although  it  lay  thus  apart  from  the  current 
of  men's  business,  this  hamlet  had  already  made 
a  figure  in  the  history  of  France.  Hard  by, 
in  caverns  of  the  mountain,  was  one  of  the  five 
arsenals  of  the  Camisards;  where  they  laid  up 
clothes  and  corn  and  arms  against  necessity, 
forged  bayonets  and  sabres,  and  made  them- 
selves gunpowder  with  willow  charcoal  and  salt- 
petre boiled  in  kettles.  To  the  same  caves,  amid 
this  multifarious  industry,  the  sick  and  wounded 
were  brought  up  to  heal;  and  there  they  were 
visited  by  the  two  surgeons,  Chabrier  and 
Tavan,  and  secretly  nursed  by  women  of  the 
neighbourhood . 

Of  the  five  legions  into  which  the  Camisards 
were  divided,  it  was  the  oldest  and  the  most 

343 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

obscure  that  had  its  magazines  by  Cassagnas. 
This  was  the  band  of  Spirit  Seguier;  men  who 
had  joined  their  voices  with  his  in  the  68th 
Psalm  as  they  marched  down  by  night  on  the 
archpriest  of  the  Cevennes.  Seguier  promoted 
to  heaven,  was  succeeded  by  Salomon  Couderc, 
whom  Cavalier  treats  in  his  memoirs  as  chaplain- 
general  to  the  whole  army  of  the  Camisards. 
He  was  a  prophet;  a  great  reader  of  the  heart, 
who  admitted  people  to  the  sacrament  or  refused 
them  by  "intentively  viewing  every  man"  be- 
tween the  eyes;  and  had  the  most  of  the  Scrip- 
tures off  by  rote.  And  this  was  surely  happy ; 
since  in  a  surprise  in  August,  1703,  he  lost  his 
mule,  his  portfolios,  and  his  Bible.  It  is  only 
strange  that  they  were  not  surprised  more  often 
and  more  effectually;  for  this  legion  of  Cas- 
sagnas was  truly  patriarchal  in  its  theory  of  war, 
and  camped  without  sentries,  leaving  that  duty 
to  the  angels  of  the  God  for  whom  they  fought. 
This  is  a  token,  not  only  of  their  faith,  but  of  the 
trackless  country  where  they  harboured.  M.  de 
Caladon,  taking  a  stroll  one  fine  day,  walked 
without  warning  into  their  midst,  as  he  might 
have  walked  into  "a  flock  of  sheep  in  a  plain," 
and  found  some  asleep  and  some  awake  and 
psalm-singing.  A  traitor  had  need  of  no  recom- 
mendation to  insinuate  himself  among  their 
ranks,  beyond  "his  faculty  of  singing  psalms"; 
and  even  the  prophet  Salomon  "took  him  into 
a  particular  friendship."  Thus,  among  their 

344 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

intricate  hills,  the  rustic  troop  subsisted;  and 
history  can  attribute  few  exploits  to  them  but 
sacraments  and  ecstasies. 

People  of  this  tough  and  simple  stock  will  not, 
as  I  have  just  been  saying,  prove  variable  in 
religion;  nor  will  they  get  nearer  to  apostasy 
than  a  mere  external  conformity  like  that  of 
Naaman  in  the  house  of  Rimmon.  When 
Louis  XVI.,  in  the  words  of  the  edict,  "  convinced 
by  the  uselessness  of  a  century  of  persecutions, 
and  rather  from  necessity  than  sympathy," 
granted  at  last  a  royal  grace  of  toleration,  Cas- 
sagnas  was  still  Protestant;  and  to  a  man,  it  is 
so  to  this  day.  There  is,  indeed,  one  family 
that  is  not  Protestant,  but  neither  is  it  Catholic. 
It  is, that  of  a  Catholic  cure  in  revolt,  who  has 
taken  to  his  bosom  a  schoolmistress.  And  his 
conduct,  it  is  worth  noting,  is  disapproved  by 
the  Protestant  villagers. 

"It  is  a  bad  idea  for  a  man,"  said  one,  "to  go 
back  from  his  engagements." 

The  villagers  whom  I  saw  seemed  intelligent 
after  a  countrified  fashion,  and  were  all  plain 
and  dignified  in  manner.  As  a  Protestant  my- 
self, I  was  well  looked  upon,  and  my  acquain- 
tance with  history  gained  me  further  respect. 
For  we  had  something  not  unlike  a  religious 
controversy  at  table,  a  gendarme  and  a  merchant 
with  whom  I  dined  being  both  strangers  to  the 
place,  and  Catholics.  The  young  men  of  the 
house  stood  round  and  supported  me;  and  the 

345 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

whole  discussion  was  tolerantly  conducted,  and 
surprised  a  man  brought  up  among  the  infini- 
tesimal and  contentious  differences  of  Scotland. 
The  merchant,  indeed,  grew  a  little  warm,  and 
was  far  less  pleased  than  some  others  with  my 
historical  acquirements.  But  the  gendarme  was 
mighty  easy  over  it  all. 

"It's  a  bad  idea  for  a  man  to  change,"  said 
he;  and  the  remark  was  generally  applauded. 

That  was  not  the  opinion  of  the  priest  and 
soldier  at  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  But  this  is  a 
different  race;  and  perhaps  the  same  great- 
heartedness  that  upheld  them  to  resist,  now  en- 
ables them  to  differ  in  a  kind  spirit.  For  cour- 
age respects  courage;  but  where  a  faith  has  been 
trodden  out,  we  may  look  for  a  mean  and  narrow 
population.  The  true  work  of  Bruce  and 
Wallace  was  the  union  of  the  nations;  not  that 
they  should  stand  apart  a  while  longer,  skirmish- 
ing upon  their  borders ;  but  that,  when  the  time 
came,  they  might  unite  with  self-respect. 

The  merchant  was  much  interested  in  my  jour- 
ney, and  thought  it  dangerous  to  sleep  afield. 

"There  are  the  wolves,"  said  he;  "and  then 
it  is  known  you  are  an  Englishman.  The  English 
have  always  long  purses,  and  it  might  very  well 
enter  into  some  one's  head  to  deal  you  an  ill  blow 
some  night." 

I  told  him  I  was  not  much  afraid  of  such  ac- 
cidents; and  at  any  rate  judged  it  unwise  to 
dwell  upon  alarms  or  consider  small  perils  in 

346 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

the  arrangement  of  life.  Life  itself,  I  submitted, 
was  a  far  too  risky  business  as  a  whole  to  make 
each  additional  particular  of  danger  worth 
regard.  "Something,"  said  I,  "might  burst  in 
your  inside  any  day  of  the  week,  and  there  would 
be  an  end  of  you,  if  you  were  locked  into  your 
room  with  three  turns  of  the  key." 

"Cependant"  said  he,  "coucher  dehors!" 

"God,"  said  I,  "is  everywhere." 

"Cependant,  coucher  dehors!"  he  repeated, 
and  his  voice  was  eloquent  of  terror. 

He  was  the  only  person,  in  all  my  voyage, 
who  saw  anything  hardy  in  so  simple  a  proceed- 
ing; although  many  considered  it  superfluous. 
Only  one,  on  the  other  hand,  professed  much 
delight  in  the  idea;  and  that  was  my  Plymouth 
Brother,  who  cried  out,  when  I  told  him  I  some- 
times preferred  sleeping  under  the  stars  to  a 
close  and  noisy  alehouse,  "Now  I  see  that  you 
know  the  Lord!" 

The  merchant  asked  me  for  one  of  my  cards 
as  I  was  leaving,  for  he  said  I  should  be  some- 
thing to  talk  of  in  the  future,  and  desired  me  to 
make  a  note  of  his  request  and  reason;  a  desire 
with  which  I  have  thus  complied. 

A  little  after  two  I  struck  across  the  Mimente 
and  took  a  rugged  path  southward  up  a  hillside 
covered  with  loose  stones  and  tufts  of  heather. 
At  the  top,  as  is  the  habit  of  the  country,  the  path 
disappeared;  and  I  left  my  she-ass  munching 
heather,  and  went  forward  alone  to  seek  a  road. 

347 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

I  was  now  on  the  separation  of  two  vast  water- 
sheds ;  behind  me  all  the  streams  were  bound  for 
the  Garonne  and  the  Western  Ocean;  before  me 
was  the  basin  of  the  Rhone.  Hence,  as  from 
the  Lozere,  you  can  see  in  clear  weather  the  shin- 
ing of  the  Gulf  of  Lyons ;  and  perhaps  from  here 
the  soldiers  of  Salomon  may  have  watched  for 
the  topsails  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  and  the 
long-promised  aid  from  England.  You  may 
take  this  ridge  as  lying  in  the  heart  of  the  coun- 
try of  the  Camisards:  four  of  the  five  legions 
camped  all  round  it  and  almost  within  view — 
Salomon  and  Joani  to  the  north,  Castanet  and 
Roland  to  the  south;  and  when  Julien  had 
finished  his  famous  work,  the  devastation  of  the 
High  Cevennes,  which  lasted  all  through  October 
and  November,  1703,  and  during  which  four 
hundred  and  sixty  villages  and  hamlets  were, 
with  fire  and  pickaxe,  utterly  subverted,  a  man 
standing  on  this  eminence  would  have  looked 
forth  upon  a  silent,  smokeless,  and  dispeopled 
land.  Time  and  man's  activity  have  now  re- 
paired these  ruins;  Cassagnas  is  once  more 
roofed  and  sending  up  domestic  smoke;  and  in 
the  chestnut  gardens,  in  low  and  leafy  corners, 
many  a  prosperous  farmer  returns,  when  the 
day's  work  is  done,  to  his  children  and  bright 
hearth.  And  still  it  was  perhaps  the  wildest 
view  of  all  my  journey.  Peak  upon  peak, 
chain  upon  chain  of  hills  ran  surging  southward, 
channelled  and  sculptured  by  the  winter  streams, 

348 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

feathered  from  head  to  foot  with  chestnuts,  and 
here  and  there  breaking  out  into  a  coronal  of 
cliffs.  The  sun,  which  was  still  far  from  setting, 
sent  a  drift  of  misty  gold  across  the  hill-tops, 
but  the  valleys  were  already  plunged  in  a  pro- 
found and  quiet  shadow. 

A  very  old  shepherd,  hobbling  on  a  pair  of 
sticks,  and  wearing  a  black  cap  of  liberty,  as  if 
in  honour  of  his  nearness  to  the  grave,  directed 
me  to  the  road  for  St.  Germain  de  Calberte. 
There  was  something  solemn  in  the  isolation 
of  this  infirm  and  ancient  creature.  Where 
he  dwelt,  how  he  got  upon  this  high  ridge,  or 
how  he  proposed  to  get  down  again,  were  more 
than  I  could  fancy.  Not  far  off  upon  my  right 
was  the  famous  Plan  de  Font  Morte,  where  Poul 
with  his  Armenian  sabre  slashed  down  the 
Camisards  of  Seguier.  This,  methought,  might 
be  some  Rip  van  Winkle  of  the  war,  who  had 
lost  his  comrades,  fleeing  before  Poul,  and 
wandered  ever  since  upon  the  mountains.  It 
might  be  news  to  him  that  Cavalier  had  sur- 
rendered, or  Roland  had  fallen  fighting  with  his 
back  against  an  olive.  And  while  I  was  thus 
working  on  my  fancy,  I  heard  him  hailing  in 
broken  tones,  and  saw  him  waving  me  to  come 
back,  with  one  of  his  two  sticks.  I  had  already 
got  some  way  past  him;  but,  leaving  Modestine 
once  more,  retraced  my  steps. 

Alas,  it  was  a  very  commonplace  affair.  The 
old  gentleman  had  forgot  to  ask  the  pedlar 

349 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

what  he  sold,  and  wished  to  remedy  this  neglect. 

I  told  him  sternly,  "Nothing." 

"Nothing?  "cried  he. 

I  repeated  "Nothing,"  and  made  off. 

It's  odd  to  think  of,  but  perhaps  I  thus  be- 
came as  inexplicable  to  the  old  man  as  he  had 
been  to  me. 

The  road  lay  under  chestnuts,  and  though  I 
saw  a  hamlet  or  two  below  me  in  the  vale,  and 
many  lone  houses  of  the  chestnut  farmers,  it 
was  a  very  solitary  march  all  afternoon;  and 
the  evening  began  early  underneath  the  trees. 
But  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  woman  singing  some 
sad,  old,  endless  ballad  not  far  off.  It  seemed 
to  be  about  love  and  a  bel  amoureux,  her  hand- 
some sweetheart;  and  I  wished  I  could  have 
taken  up  the  strain  and  answered  her,  as  I  went 
on  upon  my  invisible  woodland  way,  weaving, 
like  Pippa  in  the  poem,  my  own  thoughts  with 
hers.  What  could  I  have  told  her?  Little 
enough;  and  yet  all  the  heart  requires.  How 
the  world  gives  and  takes  away,  and  brings 
sweethearts  near,  only  to  separate  them  again 
into  distant  and  strange  lands;  but  to  love  is 
the  great  amulet  which  makes  the  world  a  gar- 
den; and  "hope,  which  comes  to  all,"  outwears 
the  accidents  of  life,  and  reaches  with  tremulous 
hand  beyond  the  grave  and  death.  Easy  to 
say:  yea,  but  also,  by  God's  mercy,  both  easy 
and  grateful  to  believe! 

We  struck  at  last  into  a  wide  white  highroad, 
350 


THE  HEART   OF  THE  COUNTRY 

carpeted  with  noiseless  dust.  The  night  had 
come ;  the  moon  had  been  shining  for  a  long  while 
upon  the  opposite  mountain;  when  on  turning 
a  corner  my  donkey  and  I  issued  ourselves  into 
her  light.  I  had  emptied  out  my  brandy  at 
Florae,  for  I  could  bear  the  stuff  no  longer, 
and  replaced  it  with  some  generous  and  scented 
Volnay;  and  now  I  drank  to  the  moon's  sacred 
majesty  upon  the  road.  It  was  but  a  couple 
of  mouthfuls;  yet  I  became  thenceforth  uncon- 
scious of  my  limbs,  and  my  blood  flowed  with 
luxury.  Even  Modestine  was  inspired  by  this 
purified  nocturnal  sunshine,  and  bestirred  her 
little  hoofs  as  to  a  livelier  measure.  The  road 
wound  and  descended  swiftly  among  masses  of 
chestnuts.  Hot  dust  rose  from  our  feet  and 
flowed  away.  Our  two  shadows — mine  de- 
formed with  the  knapsack,  hers  comically 
bestridden  by  the  pack — now  lay  before  us 
clearly  outlined  on  the  road,  and  now,  as  we 
turned  a  corner,  went  off  into  the  ghostly  dis- 
tance, and  sailed  along  the  mountain  like  clouds. 
From  time  to  time  a  warm  wind  rustled  down  the 
valley,  and  set  all  the  chestnuts  dangling  their 
bunches  of  foliage  and  fruit;  the  ear  was  filled 
with  whispering  music,  and  the  shadows  danced 
in  tune.  And  next  moment  the  breeze  had  gone 
by,  and  in  all  the  valley  nothing  moved  except 
our  travelling  feet.  On  the  opposite  slope, 
the  monstrous  ribs  and  gullies  of  the  mountain 
were  faintly  designed  in  the  moonshine;  and 

351 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

high  overhead,  in  some  lone  house,  there  burned 
one  lighted  window,  one  square  spark  of  red  in 
the  huge  field  of  sad  nocturnal  colouring. 

At  a  certain  point,  as  I  went  downward,  turn- 
ing many  acute  angles,  the  moon  disappeared 
behind  the  hill;  and  I  pursued  my  way  in  great 
darkness,  until  another  turning  shot  me  without 
preparation  into  St.  Germain  de  Calberte.  The 
place  was  asleep  and  silent,  and  buried  in  opaque 
night.  Only  from  a  single  open  door,  some 
lamplight  escaped  upon  the  road  to  show  me  I 
was  come  among  men's  habitations.  The  two 
last  gossips  of  the  evening,  still  talking  by  a 
garden  wall,  directed  me  to  the  inn.  The  land- 
lady was  getting  her  chicks  to  bed;  the  fire 
was  already  out,  and  had,  not  without  grumbling, 
to  be  rekindled;  half  an  hour  later,  and  I  must 
have  gone  supperless  to  roost. 


352 


THE  LAST  DAY 

WHEN  I  awoke  (Thursday,  3d  October), 
and,  hearing  a  great  flourishing  of  cocks 
and  chuckling  of  contented  hens,  betook  me  to 
the  window  of  the  clean  and  comfortable  room 
where  I  had  slept  the  night,  I  looked  forth  on  a 
sunshiny  morning  in  a  deep  vale  of  chestnut 
gardens.  It  was  still  early,  and  the  cockcrows, 
and  the  slanting  lights,  and  the  long  shadows 
encouraged  me  to  be  out  and  look  round  me. 

St.  Germain  de  Calberte  is  a  great  parish  nine 
leagues  round  about.  At  the  period  of  the  wars, 
and  immediately  before  the  devastation,  it  was 
inhabited  by  two  hundred  and  seventy-five 
families,  of  which  only  nine  were  Catholic;  and 
it  took  the  cure  seventeen  September  days  to  go 
from  house  to  house  on  horseback  for  a  census. 
But  the  place  itself,  although  capital  of  a  canton, 
is  scarce  larger  than  a  hamlet.  It  lies  terraced 
across  a  steep  slope  in  the  midst  of  mighty 
chestnuts.  The  Protestant  chapel  stands  below 
upon  a  shoulder;  in  the  midst  of  the  town  is  the 
quaint  old  Catholic  church. 

It  was  here  that  poor  Du  Chayla,  the  Christian 
353 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

martyr,  kept  his  library  and  held  a  court  of 
missionaries;  here  he  had  built  his  tomb,  think- 
ing to  lie  among  a  grateful  population  whom 
he  had  redeemed  from  error;  and  hither  on  the 
morrow  of  his  death  they  brought  the  body, 
pierced  with  two-and-fifty  wounds,  to  be  in- 
terred. Clad  in  his  priestly  robes,  he  was  laid 
out  in  state  in  the  church.  The  cure,  taking  bis 
text  from  Second  Samuel,  twentieth  chapter 
and  twelfth  verse,  "And  Amasa  wallowed  in 
his  blood  in  the  highway,"  preached  a  rousing 
sermon,  and  exhorted  his  brethren  to  die  each 
at  his  post,  like  their  unhappy  and  illustrious 
superior.  In  the  midst  of  this  eloquence  there 
came  a  breeze  that  Spirit  Seguier  was  near  at 
hand;  and  behold!  all  the  assembly  took  to  their 
horses'  heels,  some  east,  some  west,  and  the  cure 
himself  as  far  as  Alais. 

Strange  was  the  position  of  this  little  Catholic 
metropolis,  a  thimbleful  of  Rome,  in  such  a 
wild  and  contrary  neighbourhood.  On  the  one 
hand,  the  legion  of  Salomon  overlooked  it  from 
Cassagnas;  on  the  other,  it  was  cut  off  from 
assistance  by  the  legion  of  Roland  at  Mialet. 
The  cure,  Louvrelenil,  although  he  took  a  panic 
at  the  archpriest's  funeral,  and  so  hurriedly 
decamped  to  Alais,  stood  well  by  his  isolated 
pulpit,  and  thence  uttered  fulminations  against 
the  crimes  of  the  Protestants.  Salomon  be- 
sieged the  village  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  but 
was  beaten  back.  The  militiamen,  on  guard  be- 

354 


THE  LAST  DAY 

fore  the  cure's  door,  could  be  heard,  in  the 
black  hours,  singing  Protestant  psalms  and  hold- 
ing friendly  talk  with  the  insurgents.  And  in 
the  morning,  although  not  a  shot  had  been 
fired,  there  would  not  be  a  round  of  powder  in 
their  flasks.  Where  was  it  gone?  All  handed 
over  to  the  Camisards  for  a  consideration.  Un- 
trusty  guardians  for  an  isolated  priest! 

That  these  continual  stirs  were  once  busy  in 
St.  Germain  de  Calberte,  the  imagination  with 
difficulty  receives;  all  is  now  so  quiet,  the  pulse 
of  human  life  now  beats  so  low  and  still  in  this 
hamlet  of  the  mountains.  Boys  followed  me  a 
great  way  off,  like  a  timid  sort  of  lion-hunters; 
and  people  turned  round  to  have  a  second  look, 
or  came  out  of  their  houses,  as  I  went  by.  My 
passage  was  the  first  event,  you  would  have 
fancied,  since  the  Camisards.  There  was  noth- 
ing rude  or  forward  in  this  observation;  it  was 
but  a  pleased  and  wondering  scrutiny,  like  that 
of  oxen  or  the  human  infant;  yet  it  wearied  my 
spirits,  and  soon  drove  me  from  the  street. 

I  took  refuge  on  the  terraces,  which  are  here 
greenly  carpeted  with  sward,  and  tried  to  imi- 
tate with  a  pencil  the  inimitable  attitudes  of  the 
chestnuts  as  they  bear  up  their  canopy  of  leaves. 
Ever  and  again  a  little  wind  went  by,  and  the 
nuts  dropped  all  around  me,  with  a  light  and 
dull  sound,  upon  the  sward.  The  noise  was  as 
of  a  thin  fall  of  great  hailstones;  but  there  went 
with  it  a  cheerful  human  sentiment  of  an  ap- 

355 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

preaching  harvest  and  farmers  rejoicing  hi  their 
gains.  Looking  up,  I  could  see  the  brown  nut 
peering  through  the  husk,  which  was  already 
gaping;  and  between  the  stems  the  eye  embraced 
an  amphitheatre  of  hill,  sunlit  and  green  with 
leaves. 

I  have  not  often  enjoyed  a  place  more  deeply. 
I  moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  pleasure,  and  felt 
light  and  quiet  and  content.  But  perhaps  it  was 
not  the  place  alone  that  so  disposed  my  spirit. 
Perhaps  some  one  was  thinking  of  me  in  another 
country;  or  perhaps  some  thought  of  my  own 
had  come  and  gone  unnoticed,  and  yet  done  me 
good.  For  some  thoughts,  which  sure  would  be 
the  most  beautiful,  vanish  before  we  can  rightly 
scan  their  features;  as  though  a  god,  travelling 
by  our  green  highways,  should  but  ope  the  door, 
give  one  smiling  look  into  the  house,  and  go 
again  forever.  Was  it  Apollo,  or  Mercury,  or 
Love  with  folded  wings?  Who  shall  say?  But 
we  go  the  lighter  about  our  business,  and  feel 
peace  and  pleasure  in  our  hearts. 

I  dined  with  a  pair  of  Catholics.  They  agreed 
in  the  condemnation  of  a  young  man,  a  Catholic, 
who  had  married  a  Protestant  girl  and  gone  over 
to  the  religion  of  his  wife.  A  Protestant  born 
they  could  understand  and  respect;  indeed,  they 
seemed  to  be  of  the  mind  of  an  old  Catholic 
woman  who  told  me  that  same  day  there  was 
no  difference  between  the  two  sects,  save  that 
"wrong  was  more  wrong  for  the  Catholic,"  who 

356 


THE  LAST  DAY 

had  more  light  and  guidance;  but  this  of  a  man's 
desertion  filled  them  with  contempt. 

"It's  a  bad  idea  for  a  man  to  change,"  said 
one. 

It  may  have  been  accidental,  but  you  see  how 
this  phrase  pursued  me;  and  for  myself,  I  be- 
lieve it  is  the  current  philosophy  in  these  parts. 
I  have  some  difficulty  in  imagining  a  better.  It's 
not  only  a  great  flight  of  confidence  for  a  man 
to  change  his  creed  and  go  out  of  his  family 
for  heaven's  sake;  but  the  odds  are — nay,  and 
the  hope  is — that,  with  all  this  great  transition 
in  the  eyes  of  man,  he  has  not  changed  himself 
a  hairbreadth  to  the  eyes  of  God.  Honour  to 
those  who  do  so,  for  the  wrench  is  sore.  But 
it  argues  something  narrow,  whether  of  strength 
or  weakness,  whether  of  the  prophet  or  the  fool, 
in  those  who  can  take  a  sufficient  interest  in  such 
infinitesimal  and  human  operations,  or  who  can 
quit  a  friendship  for  a  doubtful  process  of  the 
mind.  And  I  think  I  should  not  leave  my  old 
creed  for  another,  changing  only  words  for  other 
words;  but  by  some  brave  reading,  embrace  it 
in  spirit  and  truth,  and  find  wrong  as  wrong  for 
me  as  for  the  best  of  other  communions. 

The  phylloxera  was  in  the  neighbourhood;  and 
instead  of  wine  we  drank  at  dinner  a  more  eco- 
nomical juice  of  the  grape — La  Parisienne,  they 
call  it.  It  is  made  by  putting  the  fruit  whole 
into  a  cask  with  water;  one  by  one  the  berries 
ferment  and  burst;  what  is  drunk  during  the 

357 


day  is  supplied  at  night  in  water;  so,  with  ever 
another  pitcher  from  the  well,  and  ever  another 
grape  exploding  and  giving  out  its  strength,  one 
cask  of  Parisienne  may  last  a  family  till  spring. 
It  is,  as  the  reader  will  anticipate,  a  feeble  beve- 
rage, but  very  pleasant  to  the  taste. 

What  with  dinner  and  coffee,  it  was  long  past 
three  before  I  left  St.  Germain  de  Calberte.  I 
went  down  beside  the  Gardon  of  Mialet,  a  great 
glaring  watercourse  devoid  of  water,  and  through 
St.  Etienne  de  Vallee  Frangaise,  or  Val  Frances- 
que,  as  they  used  to  call  it ;  and  towards  evening 
began  to  ascend  the  hill  of  St.  Pierre.  It  was  a 
long  and  steep  ascent.  Behind  me  an  empty 
carriage  returning  to  St.  Jean  du  Guard  kept 
hard  upon  my  tracks,  and  near  the  summit  over- 
took me.  The  driver,  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
was  sure  I  was  a  pedlar;  but,  unlike  others,  he 
was  sure  of  what  I  had  to  sell.  He  had  noticed 
the  blue  wool  which  hung  out  of  my  pack  at 
either  end;  and  from  this  he  had  decided, 
beyond  my  power  to  alter  his  decision,  that  I 
dealt  in  blue-wool  collars,  such  as  decorate  the 
neck  of  the  French  draught-horse. 

I  had  hurried  to  the  topmost  powers  of  Modes- 
tine,  for  I  dearly  desired  to  see  the  view  upon 
the  other  side  before  the  day  had  faded.  But  it 
was  night  when  I  reached  the  summit;  the  moon 
was  riding  high  and  clear;  and  only  a  few  grey 
streaks  of  twilight  lingered  in  the  west.  A 
yawning  valley,  gulfed  in  blackness,  lay  like  a 

358 


THE  LAST  DAY 

hole  in  created  nature  at  my  feet;  but  the  out- 
line of  the  hills  was  sharp  against  the  sky. 
There  was  Mount  Aigoal,  the  stronghold  of 
Castanet.  And  Castanet,  not  only  as  an  active 
undertaking  leader,  deserves  some  mention 
among  Camisards;  for  there  is  a  spray  of  rose 
among  his  laurel;  and  he  showed  how,  even  in  a 
public  tragedy,  love  will  have  its  way.  In 
the  high  tide  of  war  he  married,  in  his  mountain 
citadel,  a  young  and  pretty  lass  called  Mariette. 
There  were  great  rejoicings;  and  the  bridegroom 
released  five-and-twenty  prisoners  in  honour 
of  the  glad  event.  Seven  months  afterwards 
Mariette,  the  Princess  of  the  Cevennes,  as  they 
called  her  in  derision,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
authorities,  where  it  was  like  to  have  gone 
hard  with  her.  But  Castanet  was  a  man  of 
execution,  and  loved  his  wife.  He  fell  on  Valle- 
raugue,  and  got  a  lady  there  for  a  hostage;  and 
for  the  first  and  last  time  in  that  war  there 
was  an  exchange  of  prisoners.  Their  daughter, 
pledge  of  some  starry  night  upon  Mount  Aigoal, 
has  left  descendants  to  this  day. 

Modestine  and  I — it  was  our  last  meal  together 
— had  a  snack  upon  the  top  of  St.  Pierre,  I  on 
a  heap  of  stones,  she  standing  by  me  in  the  moon- 
light and  decorously  eating  bread  out  of  my 
hand.  The  poor  brute  would  eat  more  heartily 
in  this  manner;  for  she  had  a  sort  of  affection 
for  me,  which  I  was  soon  to  betray. 

It  was  a  long  descent  upon  St.  Jean  du  Gard 
359 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

and  we  met  no  one  but  a  carter,  visible  afar 
off  by  the  glint  of  the  moon  on  his  extinguished 
lantern. 

Before  ten  o'clock  we  had  got  in  and  were  at 
supper;  fifteen  miles  and  a  stiff  hill  in  little  be- 
yond six  hours! 


360 


FAREWELL,  MODESTINE! 

ON  examination,  on  the  morning  of  Octo- 
ber 4th,  Modestine  was  pronounced  un- 
fit for  travel.  She  would  need  at  least  two 
days'  repose  according  to  the  ostler;  but  I  was 
now  eager  to  reach  Alais  for  my  letters;  and, 
being  in  a  civilised  country  of  stage-coaches,  I 
determined  to  sell  my  lady  friend  and  be  off 
by  the  diligence  that  afternoon.  Our  yester- 
day's march,  with  the  testimony  of  the  driver 
who  had  pursued  us  up  the  long  hill  of  St.  Pierre, 
spread  a  favourable  notion  of  my  donkey's 
capabilities.  Intending  purchasers  were  aware 
of  an  unrivalled  opportunity.  Before  ten  I 
had  an  offer  of  twenty-five  francs;  and  before 
noon,  after  a  desperate  engagement,  I  sold  her 
saddle  and  all,  for  five-and-thirty.  The  pecuni- 
ary gain  is  not  obvious,  but  I  had  bought  freedom 
into  the  bargain. 

St.  Jean  du  Gard  is  a  large  place  and  largely 
Protestant.  The  maire,  a  Protestant,  asked 
me  to  help  him  in  a  small  matter  which  is  it- 
self characteristic  of  the  country.  The  young 
women  of  the  Cevennes  profit  by  the  common 

361 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

religion  and  the  difference  of  the  language  to  go 
largely  as  governesses  into  England;  and  here 
was  one,  a  native  of  Mialet,  struggling  with 
English  circulars  from  two  different  agencies  in 
London.  I  gave  what  help  I  could;  and  volun- 
teered some  advice,  which  struck  me  as  being 
excellent. 

One  thing  more  I  note.  The  phylloxera  has 
ravaged  the  vineyards  in  this  neighbourhood; 
and  in  the  early  morning,  under  some  chestnuts 
by  the  river,  I  found  a  party  of  men  working 
with  a  cider-press.  I  could  not  at  first  make  out 
what  they  were  after,  and  asked  one  fellow  to 
explain. 

"Making  cider,"  he  said.  "Out,  c'est  comme 
fa.  Comme  dans  le  nord!" 

There  was  a  ring  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice; 
the  country  was  going  to  the  devil. 

It  was  not  until  I  was  fairly  seated  by  the 
driver,  and  rattling  through  a  rocky  valley 
with  dwarf  olives,  that  I  became  aware  of  my 
bereavement.  I  had  lost  Modestina,  Up  to 
that  moment  I  had  thought  I  hated  her;  but 
now  she  was  gone. 

"And,  Oh, 
The  difference  to  me!" 

For  twelve  days  we  had  been  fast  companions ; 
we  had  travelled  upwards  of  a  hundred  and 
twenty  miles,  crossed  several  respectable  ridges, 
and  jogged  along  with  our  six  legs  by  many  a 

362 


FAREWELL,  MODESTINE! 

rocky  and  many  a  boggy  by-road.  After  the 
first  day,  although  sometimes  I  was  hurt  and 
distant  in  manner,  I  still  kept  my  patience; 
and  as  for  her,  poor  soul  I  she  had  come  to  regard 
me  as  a  god.  She  loved  to  eat  out  of  my  hand. 
She  was  patient,  elegant  in  form,  the  colour  of 
an  ideal  mouse,  and  inimitably  small.  Her 
faults  were  those  of  her  race  and  sex;  her  virtues 

were  her  own.    Farewell,  and  if  forever 

Father  Adam  wept  when  he  sold  her  to  me; 
after  I  had  sold  her  in  my  turn,  I  was  tempted 
to  follow  his  example;  and  being  alone  with  a 
stage-driver  and  four  or  five  agreeable  young 
men,  I  did  not  hesitate  to  yield  to  my  emotion. 


363 


EDINBURGH: 
PICTURESQUE  NOTES 


This  work  consists  of  a  series  of  contribu- 
tions which  originally  appeared  in  The 
Portfolio,  running  from  June  to  December, 
1878.  It  was  published  as  a  book  in  1879, 
with  etchings  by  A.  Brunet-Debaines,  a 
distinguished  French  artist  who  was  then 
living  in  England. 

"T  is  a  kind  of  book  nobody  would 
ever  care  to  read;  but  none  of  the  young 
men  could  have  done  it  better  than  I 
have,  which  is  always  a  consideration," 
wrote  Stevenson  to  his  mother  in  Septem- 
ber, 1878. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  INTRODUCTORY 369 

II.  OLD  TOWN:  THE  LANDS  ....  379 

III.  THE  PARLIAMENT  CLOSE  ....  389 

IV.  LEGENDS 398 

V.  GREYFRIARS 407 

VI.  NEW  TOWN:  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  .  417 

VII.  THE  VILLA  QUARTERS     ....  426 

VIII.  THE  CALTON  HILL 429 

IX.  WINTER  AND  NEW  YEAR     .     .     .  438 

X.  To  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS  448 


EDINBURGH: 
PICTURESQUE  NOTES 

I 
INTRODUCTORY 

HE  ancient  and  famous  metro- 
polis of  the  North  sits  overlook- 
ing a  windy  estuary  from  the 
slope  and  summit  of  three  hills. 
No  situation  could  be  more 
commanding  for  the  head  city 
of  a  kingdom;  none  better  chosen  for  noble  pros- 
pects. From  her  tall  precipice  and  terraced 
gardens  she  looks  far  and  wide  on  the  sea  and 
broad  champaigns.  To  the  east  you  may  catch 
at  sunset  the  spark  of  the  May  lighthouse, 
where  the  Firth  expands  into  the  German  Ocean; 
and  away  to  the  west,  over  all  the  carse  of  Stir- 
ling, you  can  see  the  first  snows  upon  Ben  Ledi. 
But  Edinburgh  pays  cruelly  for  her  high  seat 
in  one  of  the  vilest  climates  under  heaven.  She 
is  liable  to  be  beaten  upon  by  all  the  winds  that 
blow,  to  be  drenched  with  rain,  to  be  buried  in 

369 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

cold  sea  fogs  out  of  the  east,  and  powdered  with 
the  snow  as  it  comes  flying  southward  from  the 
Highland  hills.  The  weather  is  raw  and  boister- 
ous in  winter,  shifty  and  ungenial  in  summer, 
and  a  downright  meteorological  purgatory  in 
the  spring.  The  delicate  die  early,  and  I,  as  a 
survivor,  among  bleak  winds  and  plumping 
rain,  have  been  sometimes  tempted  to  envy 
them  their  fate.  For  all  who  love  shelter  and 
the  blessings  of  the  sun,  who  hate  dark  weather 
and  perpetual  tilting  against  squalls,  there  could 
scarcely  be  found  a  more  unhomely  and  harass- 
ing place  of  residence.  Many  such  aspire  an- 
grily after  that  Somewhere-else  of  the  imagina- 
tion, where  all  troubles  are  supposed  to  end. 
They  lean  over  the  great  bridge  which  joins 
the  New  Town  with  the  Old — that  windiest 
spot,  or  high  altar,  in  this  northern  temple  of 
the  winds — and  watch  the  trains  smoking  out 
from  under  them  and  vanishing  into  the  tunnel 
on  a  voyage  to  brighter  skies.  Happy  the  pas- 
sengers who  shake  off  the  dust  of  Edinburgh, 
and  have  heard  for  the  last  time  the  cry  of  the 
east  Avind  among  her  chimney-tops!  And  yet 
the  place  establishes  an  interest  in  people's 
hearts;  go  where  they  will,  they  find  no  city  of 
the  same  distinction;  go  where  they  will,  they 
take  a  pride  in  their  old  home. 

Venice,  it  has  been  said,  differs  from  all  other 
cities  in  the  sentiment  which  she  inspires.  The 
rest  may  have  admirers ;  she  only,  a  famous  fair 

370 


INTRODUCTORY 

one,  counts  lovers  in  her  train.  And  indeed, 
even  by  her  kindest  friends,  Edinburgh  is  not 
considered  in  a  similar  sense.  These  like  her 
for  many  reasons,  not  any  one  of  which  is  satis- 
factory in  itself.  They  like  her  whimsically, 
if  you  will,  and  somewhat  as  a  virtuoso  dotes 
upon  his  cabinet.  Her  attraction  is  romantic 
in  the  narrowest  meaning  of  the  term.  Beauti- 
ful as  she  is,  she  is  not  so  much  beautiful  as 
interesting.  She  is  pre-eminently  Gothic,  and 
all  the  more  so  since  she  has  set  herself  off  with 
some  Greek  airs,  and  erected  classic  temples 
on  her  crags.  In  a  word,  and  above  all,  she  is  a 
curiosity. 

The  Palace  of  Holyrood  has  been  left  aside 
in  the  growth  of  Edinburgh;  and  stands  grey 
and  silent  in  a  workman's  quarter  and  among 
breweries  and  gas  works.  It  is  a  house  of 
many  memories.  Great  people  of  yore,  kings 
and  queens,  buffoons  and  grave  ambassadors, 
played  their  stately  farce  for  centuries  in  Holy- 
rood.  Wars  have  been  plotted,  dancing  has 
lasted  deep  into  the  night,  murder  has  been 
done  in  its  chambers.  There  Prince  Charlie 
held  his  phantom  levees,  and  in  a  very  gallant 
manner  represented  a  fallen  dynasty  for  some 
hours.  Now,  all  these  things  of  clay  are  mingled 
with  the  dust,  the  king's  crown  itself  is  shown 
for  sixpence  to  the  vulgar;  but  the  stone  palace 
has  outlived  these  changes. 

For  fifty  weeks  together,  it  is  no  more  than  a 
371 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

show  for  tourists  and  a  museum  of  old  furniture ; 
but  on  the  fifty-first,  behold  the  palace  re-awak- 
ened and  mimicking  its  past. 

The  Lord  Commissioner,  a  kind  of  stage 
sovereign,  sits  among  stage  courtiers;  a  coach 
and  six  and  clattering  escort  come  and  go 
before  the  gate;  at  night,  the  windows  are 
lighted  up,  and  its  near  neighbours,  the  work- 
men, may  dance  in  their  own  houses  to  the  palace 
music.  And  in  this  the  palace  is  typical.  There 
is  a  spark  among  the  embers ;  from  time  to  time 
the  old  volcano  smokes.  Edinburgh  has  but 
partly  abdicated,  and  still  wears,  in  parody,  her 
metropolitan  trappings.  Half  a  capital  and  half 
a  country  town,  the  whole  city  leads  a  double 
existence;  it  has  long  trances  of  the  one  and 
flashes  of  the  other;  like  the  king  of  the  Black 
Isles,  it  is  half  alive  and  half  a  monumental 
marble.  There  are  armed  men  and  cannon  in 
the  citadel  overhead;  you  may  see  the  troops 
marshalled  on  the  high  parade;  and  at  night  after 
the  early  winter  evenfall,  and  in  the  morning 
before  the  laggard  winter  dawn,  the  wind  carries 
abroad  over  Edinburgh  the  sound  of  drums  and 
bugles.  Grave  judges  sit  bewigged  in  what  was 
once  the  scene  of  imperial  deliberations. 

Close  by  in  the  High  Street  perhaps  the  trum- 
pets may  sound  about  the  stroke  of  noon ;  and  you 
see  a  troop  of  citizens  in  tawdry  masquerade; 
tabard  above,  heather-mixture  trouser  below, 
and  the  men  themselves  trudging  in  the  mud 

372 


INTRODUCTORY 

among  unsympathetic  bystanders.  The  grooms 
of  a  well-appointed  circus  tread  the  streets  with 
a  better  presence.  And  yet  these  are  the  Her- 
alds and  Pursuivants  of  Scotland,  who  are 
about  to  proclaim  a  new  law  of  the  United 
Kingdom  before  two  score  boys,  and  thieves,  and 
hackney-coachmen.  Meanwhile  every  hour  the 
bell  of  the  University  rings  out  over  the  hum  of 
the  streets,  and  every  hour  a  double  tide  of  stu- 
dents, coming  and  going,  fills  the  deep  archways. 

And  lastly,  one  night  in  the  spring-time — 
or  say  one  morning  rather,  at  the  peep  of  day — 
late  folk  may  hear  the  voices  of  many  men  sing- 
ing a  psalm  in  unison  from  a  church  on  one  side 
of  the  old  High  Street;  and  a  little  after,  or 
perhaps  a  little  before,  the  sound  of  many  men 
singing  a  psalm  in  unison  from  another  church 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  There  will  be 
something  in  the  words  about  the  dew  of  Hermon 
and  how  goodly  it  is  to  see  brethren  dwelling 
together  in  unity.  And  the  late  folk  will  tell 
themselves  that  all  this  singing  denotes  the 
conclusion  of  two  yearly  ecclesiastical  parlia- 
ments— the  parliaments  of  Churches  which  are 
brothers  in  many  admirable  virtues,  but  not 
specially  like  brothers  in  this  particular  of  a 
tolerant  and  peaceful  life. 

Again,  meditative  people  will  find  a  charm  in  a 
certain  consonancy  between  the  aspect  of  the 
city  and  its  odd  and  stirring  history.  Few 
places,  if  any,  offer  a  more  barbaric  display 

373 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

of  contrasts  to  the  eye.  In  the  very  midst 
stands  one  of  the  most  satisfactory  crags  in 
nature — a  Bass  Rock  upon  dry  land  rooted 
in  a  garden,  shaken  by  passing  trains,  carrying  a 
crown  of  battlements  and  turrets,  and  describing 
its  warlike  shadow  over  the  liveliest  and  bright- 
est thoroughfare  of  the  new  town.  From  their 
smoky  beehives,  ten  stories  high,  the  unwashed 
look  down  upon  the  open  squares  and  gar- 
dens of  the  wealthy;  and  gay  people  sunning 
themselves  along  Princes  Street,  with  its  mile 
of  commercial  palaces  all  beflagged  upon  some 
great  occasion,  see,  across  a  gardened  valley  set 
with  statues,  where  the  washings  of  the  old 
town  flutter  in  the  breeze  at  its  high  win- 
dows. And  then,  upon  all  sides,  what  a  clash- 
ing of  architecture!  In  this  one  valley,  where 
the  life  of  the  town  goes  most  busily  forward, 
there  may  be  seen,  shown  one  above  and  be- 
hind another  by  the  accidents  of  the  ground, 
buildings  in  almost  every  style  upon  the  globe. 
Egyptian  and  Greek  temples,  Venetian  palaces 
and  Gothic  spires,  are  huddled  one  over  another 
in  a  most  admired  disorder;  while,  above  all, 
the  brute  mass  of  the  Castle  and  the  summit  of 
Arthur's  Seat  look  down  upon  these  imitations 
with  a  becoming  dignity,  as  the  works  of  Nature 
may  look  down  upon  the  monuments  of  Art. 
But  Nature  is  a  more  indiscriminate  patroness 
than  we  imagine,  and  in  no  way  frightened  of  a 
strong  effect.  The  birds  roost  as  willingly 

374 


INTRODUCTORY 

among  the  Corinthian  capitals  as  in  the  crannies 
of  the  crag;  the  same  atmosphere  and  daylight 
clothe  the  eternal  rock  and  yesterday's  imitation 
portico;  and  as  the  soft  northern  sunshine  throws 
out  everything  into  a  glorified  distinctness — or 
easterly  mists,  coming  up  with  the  blue  evening, 
fuse  all  these  incongruous  features  into  one,  and 
the  lamps  begin  to  glitter  along  the  street,  and 
faint  lights  to  burn  in  the  high  windows  across 
the  valley — the  feeling  grows  upon  you  that  this 
also  is  a  piece  of  nature  in  the  most  intimate 
sense;  that  this  profusion  of  eccentricities,  this 
dream  in  masonry  and  living  rock  is  not  a  drop- 
scene  in  a  theatre,  but  a  city  in  the  world  of 
every-day  reality,  connected  by  railway  and 
telegraph-wire  with  all  the  capitals  of  Europe, 
and  inhabited  by  citizens  of  the  familiar  type, 
who  keep  ledgers,  and  attend  church,  and  have 
sold  their  immortal  portion  to  a  daily  paper.  By 
all  the  canons  of  romance,  the  place  demands 
to  be  half  deserted  and  leaning  towards  decay; 
birds  we  might  admit  in  profusion,  the  play  of 
the  sun  and  winds,  and  a  few  gypsies  encamped 
in  the  chief  thoroughfare;  but  these  citizens, 
with  their  cabs  and  tramways,  their  trains 
and  posters,  are  altogether  out  of  key.  Char- 
tered tourists,  they  make  free  with  historic 
localities,  and  rear  their  young  among  the 
most  picturesque  sites  with  a  grand  human 
indifference.  To  see  them  thronging  by,  in 
their  neat  clothes  and  conscious  moral  rectitude, 

375 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

and  with  a  little  air  of  possession  that  verges 
on  the  absurd,  is  not  the  least  striking  feature 
of  the  place.* 

And  the  story  of  the  town  is  as  eccentric  as 
its  appearance.  For  centuries  it  was  a  capital 
thatched  with  heather,  and  more  than  once, 
in  the  evil  days  of  English  invasion,  it  has  gone 
up  in  flame  to  heaven,  a  beacon  to  ships  at  sea. 
It  was  the  jousting-ground  of  jealous  nobles, 
not  only  on  Greenside  or  by  the  King's  Stables, 
where  set  tournaments  were  fought  to  the  sound 
of  trumpets  and  under  the  authority  of  the  royal 
presence,  but  in  every  alley  where  there  was  room 
to  cross  swords,  and  in  the  main  street,  where 
popular  tumult  under  the  Blue  Blanket  alter- 
nated with  the  brawls  of  outlandish  clansmen 
and  retainers.  Down  in  the  palace  John  Knox 
reproved  his  queen  in  the  accents  of  modern 
democracy.  In  the  town,  in  one  of  those  little 

*These  sentences  have,  I  hear,  given  offence  in  my  native  town,  and 
a  proportionable  pleasure  to  our  rivals  of  Glasgow.  I  confess  the 
news  caused  me  both  pain  and  merriment.  May  I  remark,  as  a  balm 
for  wounded  fellow-townsmen,  that  there  is  nothing  deadly  in  my 
accusations?  Small  blame  to  them  if  they  keep  ledgers:  'tis  an  ex- 
cellent business  habit.  Church-going  is  not,  that  ever  I  heard,  a 
subject  of  reproach;  decency  of  linen  is  a  mark  of  prosperous  af- 
fairs, and  conscious  moral  rectitude  one  of  the  tokens  of  good  living. 
It  is  not  their  fault  if  the  city  calls  for  something  more  specious  by 
way  of  inhabitants.  A  man  in  a  frock-coat  looks  out  of  place  upon 
an  Alp  or  Pyramid,  although  he  has  the  virtues  of  a  Peabody  and  the 
talents  of  a  Bentham.  And  let  them  console  themselves — they  do  as 
well  as  anybody  else;  the  population  of  (let  us  say)  Chicago  would  cut 
quite  as  rueful  a  figure  on  the  same  romantic  stage.  To  the  Glas- 
gow people  I  would  say  only  one  word,  but  that  is  of  gold:  /  have  not 
yet  written  a  book  about  Glasgow. 

376 


INTRODUCTORY 

shops  plastered  like  so  many  swallows'  nests 
among  the  buttresses  of  the  old  Cathedral, 
that  familiar  autocrat,  James  VI.,  would  gladly 
share  a  bottle  of  wine  with  George  Heriot  the 
goldsmith.  Up  on  the  Pentland  Hills,  that  so 
quietly  look  down  on  the  Castle  with  the  city 
lying  in  waves  around  it,  those  mad  and  dismal 
fanatics,  the  Sweet  Singers,  haggard  from  long 
exposure  on  the  moors,  sat  day  and  night  with 
"tearful  psalms"  to  see  Edinburgh  consumed 
with  fire  from  heaven,  like  another  Sodom  or 
Gomorrah.  There,  in  the  Grass-market,  stiff- 
necked,  covenanting  heroes  offered  up  the  often 
unnecessary,  but  not  less  honourable,  sacrifice 
of  their  lives,  and  bade  eloquent  farewell  to 
sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  earthly  friendships, 
or  died  silent  to  the  roll  of  drums.  Down  by 
yon  outlet  rode  Grahame  of  Claverhouse  and 
his  thirty  dragoons,  with  the  town  beating  to 
arms  behind  their  horses'  tails — a  sorry  handful 
thus  riding  for  their  lives,  but  with  a  man  at 
the  head  who  was  to  return  in  a  different  temper, 
make  a  dash  that  staggered  Scotland  to  the 
heart,  and  die  happily  in  the  thick  of  fight. 
There  Aikenhead  was  hanged  for  a  piece  of 
boyish  incredulity;  there,  a  few  years  after- 
wards, David  Hume  ruined  Philosophy  and 
Faith,  an  undisturbed  and  well-reputed  citizen; 
and  thither,  in  yet  a  few  years  more,  Rurns 
came  from  the  plough-tail,  as  to  an  academy 
of  gilt  unbelief  and  artificial  letters.  There, 

377 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

when  the  great  exodus  was  made  across  the 
valley,  and  the  new  town  began  to  spread  abroad 
its  draughty  parallelograms  and  rear  its  long 
frontage  on  the  opposing  hill,  there  was  such  a 
flitting,  such  a  change  of  domicile  and  dweller, 
as  was  never  excelled  in  the  history  of  cities: 
the  cobbler  succeeded  the  earl;  the  beggar 
ensconced  himself  by  the  judge's  chimney; 
what  had  been  a  palace  was  used  as  a  pauper 
refuge;  and  great  mansions  were  so  parcelled 
out  among  the  least  and  lowest  in  society,  that 
the  hearthstone  of  the  old  proprietor  was  thought 
large  enough  to  be  partitioned  off  into  a  bed- 
room by  the  new. 


378 


II 

OLD  TOWN:  THE  LANDS 

THE  Old  Town,  it  is  pretended,  is  the  chief 
characteristic,  and,  from  a  picturesque 
point  of  view,  the  liver-wing  of  Edinburgh. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  common  forms  of  deprecia- 
tion to  throw  cold  water  on  the  whole  by  adroit 
over-commendation  of  a  part,  since  everything 
worth  judging,  whether  it  be  a  man,  a  work  of 
art,  or  only  a  fine  city,  must  be  judged  upon 
its  merits  as  a  whole.  The  Old  Town  depends 
for  much  of  its  effect  on  the  new  quarters  that 
lie  around  it,  on  the  sufficiency  of  its  situation, 
and  on  the  hills  that  back  it  up.  If  you  were 
to  set  it  somewhere  else  by  itself,  it  would  look 
remarkedly  like  Stirling  in  a  bolder  and  loftier 
edition.  The  point  is  to  see  this  embellished 
Stirling  planted  in  the  midst  of  a  large,  active, 
and  fantastic  modern  city;  for  there  the  two 
re-act  in  a  picturesque  sense,  and  the  one  is  the 
making  of  the  other. 

The  Old  Town  occupies  a  sloping  ridge  or  tail 
of  diluvial  matter,  protected,  in  some  subsidence 
of  the  waters,  by  the  Castle  cliffs  which  fortify 

379 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

it  to  the  west.  On  the  one  side  of  it  and  the 
other  the  new  towns  of  the  south  and  of  the 
north  occupy  their  lower,  broader,  and  more 
gentle  hill-tops.  Thus,  the  quarter  of  the 
Castle  overtops  the  whole  city  and  keeps  an  open 
view  to  sea  and  land.  It  dominates  for  miles 
on  every  side;  and  people  on  the  decks  of  ships, 
or  ploughing  in  quiet  country  places  over  in  Fife, 
can  see  the  banner  on  the  Castle  battlements, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  Old  Town  blowing  abroad 
over  the  subjacent  country.  A  city  that  is  set 
upon  a  hill.  It  was,  I  suppose,  from  this  distant 
aspect  that  she  got  her  nickname  of  Auld 
Reekie.  Perhaps  it  was  given  her  by  people 
who  had  never  crossed  her  doors:  day  after  day, 
from  their  various  rustic  Pisgahs,  they  had  seen 
the  pile  of  building  on  the  hill-top,  and  the  long 
plume  of  smoke  over  the  plain;  so  it  appeared 
to  them ;  so  it  had  appeared  to  their  fathers  till- 
ing the  same  field ;  and  as  that  was  all  they  knew 
of  the  place,  it  could  be  all  expressed  in  these 
two  words. 

Indeed,  even  on  a  nearer  view,  the  Old  Town 
is  properly  smoked ;  and  though  it  is  well  washed 
with  rain  all  the  year  round,  it  has  a  grim  and 
sooty  aspect  among  its  younger  suburbs.  It 
grew,  under  the  law  that  regulates  the  growth 
of  walled  cities  in  precarious  situations,  not  in 
extent,  but  in  height  and  density.  Public 
buildings  were  forced,  wherever  there  was  room 
for  them,  into  the  midst  of  thoroughfares; 

380 


OLD  TOWN:  THE  LANDS 

thoroughfares  were  diminished  into  lanes ;  houses 
sprang  up  story  after  story,  neighbour  mounting 
upon  neighbour's  shoulder,  as  in  some  Black 
Hole  of  Calcutta,  until  the  population  slept 
fourteen  or  fifteen  deep  in  a  vertical  direction. 
The  tallest  of  these  lands,  as  they  are  locally 
termed,  have  long  since  been  burnt  out;  but  to 
this  day  it  is  not  uncommon  to  see  eight  or  ten 
windows  at  a  flight;  and  the  cliff  of  building 
which  hangs  imminent  over  Waverley  Bridge 
would  still  put  many  natural  precipices  to  shame. 
The  cellars  are  already  high  above  the  gazer's 
head,  planted  on  the  steep  hillside;  as  for  the 
garret,  all  the  furniture  may  be  in  the  pawnshop, 
but  it  commands  a  famous  prospect  to  the 
Highland  hills.  The  poor  man  may  roost  up 
there  in  the  centre  of  Edinburgh,  and  yet  have 
a  peep  of  the  green  country  from  his  window; 
he  shall  see  the  quarters  of  the  well-to-do  fathoms 
underneath,  with  their  broad  squares  and  gar- 
dens; he  shall  have  nothing  overhead  but  a  few 
spires,  the  stone  top-gallants  of  the  city;  and 
perhaps  the  wind  may  reach  him  with  a  rustic 
pureness,  and  bring  a  smack  of  the  sea,  or  of 
flowering  lilacs  in  the  spring. 

It  is  almost  the  correct  literary  sentiment  to 
deplore  the  revolutionary  improvements  of  Mr. 
Chambers  and  his  following.  It  is  easy  to  be 
a  conservator  of  the  discomforts  of  others; 
indeed,  it  is  only  our  good  qualities  we  find 
it  irksome  to  conserve.  Assuredly,  in  driving 

381 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

streets  through  the  black  labyrinth,  a  few 
curious  old  corners  have  been  swept  away, 
and  some  associations  turned  out  of  house  and 
home.  But  what  slices  of  sunlight,  what  breaths 
of  clean  air,  have  been  let  in !  And  what  a  pic- 
turesque world  remains  untouched!  You  go 
under  dark  arches,  and  down  dark  stairs  and 
alleys.  The  way  is  so  narrow  that  you  can  lay 
a  hand  on  either  wall;  so  steep  that,  in  greasy 
winter  weather,  the  pavement  is  almost  as 
treacherous  as  ice.  Washing  dangles  above 
washing  from  the  windows;  the  houses  bulge 
outwards  upon  flimsy  brackets;  you  see  a  bit 
of  sculpture  in  a  dark  corner ;  at  the  top  of  all,  a 
gable  and  a  few  crowsteps  are  printed  on  the 
sky.  Here,  you  come  into  a  court  where  the 
children  are  at  play  and  the  grown  people  sit 
upon  their  doorsteps,  and  perhaps  a  church  spire 
shows  itself  above  the  roofs.  Here,  in  the  nar- 
rowest of  the  entry,  you  find  a  great  old  mansion 
still  erect,  with  some  insignia  of  its  former  state — 
some  scutcheon,  some  holy  or  courageous  motto, 
on  the  lintel.  The  local  antiquary  points  out 
where  famous  and  well-born  people  had  their 
lodging;  and  as  you  look  up,  out  pops  the  head 
of  a  slatternly  woman  from  the  countess's 
window.  The  Bedouins  camp  within  Pharaoh's 
palace  walls,  and  the  old  war-ship  is  given 
over  to  the  rats.  We  are  already  a  far  way  from 
the  days  when  powdered  heads  were  plentiful 
in  these  alleys,  with  jolly,  port-wine  faces  under- 

382 


OLD  TOWN:  THE  LANDS 

neath.  Even  in  the  chief  thoroughfares  Irish 
washings  flutter  at  the  windows,  and  the  pave- 
ments are  encumbered  with  loiterers. 

These  loiterers  are  a  true  character  of  the 
scene.  Some  shrewd  Scotch  workmen  may  have 
paused  on  their  way  to  a  job,  debating  Church 
affairs  and  politics  with  their  tools  upon  their 
arm.  But  the  most  part  are  of  a  different  order 
— skulking  jail-birds;  unkempt,  bare-foot  chil- 
dren; big-mouthed,  robust  women,  in  a  sort 
of  uniform  of  striped  flannel  petticoat  and  short 
tartan  shawl;  among  these,  a  few  supervising 
constables  and  a  dismal  sprinkling  of  mutineers 
and  broken  men  from  higher  ranks  in  society, 
with  some  mark  of  better  days  upon  them,  like 
a  brand.  In  a  place  no  larger  than  Edinburgh, 
and  where  the  traffic  is  mostly  centred  in  five 
or  six  chief  streets,  the  same  face  comes  often 
under  the  notice  of  an  idle  stroller.  In  fact, 
from  this  point  of  view,  Edinburgh  is  not  so  much 
a  small  city  as  the  largest  of  small  towns.  It  is 
scarce  possible  to  avoid  observing  your  neigh- 
bours; and  I  never  yet  heard  of  any  one  who 
tried.  It  has  been  my  fortune,  in  this  anony- 
mous accidental  way,  to  watch  more  than  one 
of  these  downward  travellers  for  some  stages 
on  the  road  to  ruin.  One  man  must  have  been 
upwards  of  sixty  before  I  first  observed  him, 
and  he  made  then  a  decent,  personable  figure 
in  broadcloth  of  the  best.  For  three  years  he 
kept  falling — grease  coming  and  buttons  going 

383 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

from  the  square-skirted  coat,  the  face  puffing 
and  pimpling,  the  shoulders  growing  bowed, 
the  hair  falling  scant  and  grey  upon  his  head; 
and  the  last  that  ever  I  saw  of  him,  he  was  stand- 
ing at  the  mouth  of  an  entry  with  several  men 
in  moleskin,  three  parts  drunk,  and  his  old  black 
raiment  daubed  with  mud.  I  fancy  that  I 
still  can  hear  him  laugh.  There  was  something 
heart-breaking  in  this  gradual  declension  at  so 
advanced  an  age;  you  would  have  thought  a 
man  of  sixty  out  of  the  reach  of  these  calamities; 
you  would  have  thought  that  he  was  niched  by 
that  time  into  a  safe  place  in  life,  whence  he  could 
pass  quietly  and  honourably  into  the  grave. 

One  of  the  earliest  marks  of  these  degrin- 
golades  is,  that  the  victim  begins  to  disappear 
from  the  New  Town  thoroughfares,  and  takes 
to  the  High  Street,  like  a  wounded  animal  to 
the  woods.  And  such  an  one  is  the  type  of  the 
quarter.  It  also  has  fallen  socially.  A  scutch- 
eon over  the  door  somewhat  jars  in  sentiment 
where  there  is  a  washing  at  every  window.  The 
old  man,  when  I  saw  him  last,  wore  the  coat  in 
which  he  had  played  the  gentleman  three  years 
before;  and  that  was  just  what  gave  him  so 
pre-eminent  an  air  of  wretchedness. 

It  is  true  that  the  over-population  was  at 
least  as  dense  in  the  epoch  of  lords  and  ladies, 
and  that  now-a-days  some  customs  which  made 
Edinburgh  notorious  of  yore  have  been  fortu- 
nately pretermitted.  But  an  aggregation  of 

384 


OLD  TOWN:  THE  LANDS 

comfort  is  not  distasteful  like  an  aggregation  of 
the  reverse.  Nobody  cares  how  many  lords 
and  ladies,  and  divines  and  lawyers,  may  have 
been  crowded  into  these  houses  in  the  past — 
perhaps  the  more  the  merrier.  The  glasses 
clink  around  the  china  punch-bowl,  some  one 
touches  the  virginals,  there  are  peacocks'  feath- 
ers on  the  chimney,  and  the  tapers  burn  clear 
and  pale  in  the  red  fire-light.  That  is  not  an 
ugly  picture  in  itself,  nor  will  it  become  ugly  upon 
repetition.  All  the  better  if  the  like  were  going 
on  in  every  second  room;  the  land  would  only 
look  the  more  inviting.  Times  are  changed. 
In  one  house,  perhaps,  two  score  families  herd 
together;  and,  perhaps,  not  one  of  them  is 
wholly  out  of  the  reach  of  want.  The  great 
hotel  is  given  over  to  discomfort  from  the  founda- 
tion to  the  chimney-tops ;  everywhere  a  pinching, 
narrow  habit,  scanty  meals,  and  an  air  of  slut- 
tishness  and  dirt.  In  the  first  room  there  is  a 
birth,  in  another  a  death,  in  a  third  a  sordid 
drinking-bout,  and  the  detective  and  the  Bible- 
reader  cross  upon  the  stairs.  High  words  are 
audible  from  dwelling  to  dwelling,  and  children 
have  a  strange  experience  from  the  first;  only 
a  robust  soul,  you  would  think,  could  grow  up 
in  such  conditions  without  hurt.  And  even  if 
God  tempers  his  dispensations  to  the  young,  and 
all  the  ill  does  not  arise  that  our  apprehensions 
may  forecast,  the  sight  of  such  a  way  of  living 
is  disquieting  to  people  who  are  more  happily 

385 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

circumstanced.  Social  inequality  is  nowhere 
more  ostentatious  than  at  Edinburgh.  I  have 
mentioned  already  how,  to  the  stroller  along 
Princes  Street,  the  High  Street  callously  ex- 
hibits its  back  garrets.  It  is  true  there  is  a 
garden  between.  And  although  nothing  could 
be  more  glaring  by  way  of  contrast,  sometimes 
the  opposition  is  more  immediate;  sometimes 
the  thing  lies  in  a  nutshell,  and  there  is  not  so 
much  as  a  blade  of  grass  between  the  rich  and 
poor.  To  look  over  the  South  Bridge  and  see 
the  Cowgate  below  full  of  crying  hawkers,  is  to 
view  one  rank  of  society  from  another  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

One  night  I  went  along  the  Cowgate  after 
every  one  was  abed  but  the  policeman,  and 
stopped  by  hazard  before  a  tall  land.  The 
moon  touched  upon  its  chimneys  and  shone 
blankly  on  the  upper  windows;  there  was  no 
light  anywhere  in  the  great  bulk  of  building; 
but  as  I  stood  there  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 
hear  quite  a  body  of  quiet  sounds  from  the  in- 
terior; doubtless  there  were  many  clocks  ticking, 
and  people  snoring  on  their  backs.  And  thus, 
as  I  fancied,  the  dense  life  within  made  itself 
faintly  audible  in  my  ears,  family  after  family 
contributing  its  quota  to  the  general  hum,  and 
the  whole  pile  beating  in  tune  to  its  timepieces, 
like  a  great  disordered  heart.  Perhaps  it  was 
little  more  than  a  fancy  altogether,  but  it  was 
strangely  impressive  at  the  time,  and  gave  me  an 

386 


OLD  TOWN:  THE  LANDS 

imaginative  measure  of  the  disproportion  be- 
tween the  quantity  of  living  flesh  and  the  trifling 
walls  that  separated  and  contained  it. 

There  was  nothing  fanciful,  at  least,  but  every 
circumstance  of  terror  and  reality,  in  the  fall  of 
the  land  in  the  High  Street.  The  building  had 
grown  rotten  to  the  core;  the  entry  underneath 
had  suddenly  closed  up  so  that  the  scavenger's 
barrow  could  not  pass ;  cracks  and  reverberations 
sounded  through  the  house  at  night;  the  in- 
habitants of  the  huge  old  human  bee-hive  dis- 
cussed their  peril  when  they  encountered  on  the 
stair;  some  had  even  left  their  dwellings  in  a 
panic  of  fear,  and  returned  to  them  again  in  a 
fit  of  economy  or  self-respect;  when,  in  the  black 
hours  of  a  Sunday  morning,  the  whole  structure 
ran  together  with  a  hideous  uproar  and  tumbled 
story  upon  story  to  the  ground.  The  physical 
shock  was  felt  far  and  near ;  and  the  moral  shock 
travelled  with  the  morning  milkmaid  into  all 
the  suburbs.  The  church-bells  never  sounded 
more  dismally  over  Edinburgh  than  that  grey 
forenoon.  Death  had  made  a  brave  harvest; 
and,  like  Samson,  by  pulling  down  one  roof 
destroyed  many  a  home.  None  who  saw  it  can 
have  forgotten  the  aspect  of  the  gable:  here  it 
was  plastered,  there  papered,  according  to  the 
rooms;  here  the  kettle  still  stood  on  the  hob,  high 
overhead;  and  there  a  cheap  picture  of  the  Queen 
was  pasted  over  the  chimney.  So,  by  this  dis- 
aster, you  had  a  glimpse  into  the  life  of  thirty 

387 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

families,  all  suddenly  cut  off  from  the  revolving 
years.  The  land  had  fallen;  and  with  the  land 
how  much!  Far  in  the  country,  people  saw  a 
gap  in  the  city  ranks,  and  the  sun  looked  through 
between  the  chimneys  in  an  unwonted  place. 
And  all  over  the  world,  in  London,  in  Canada, 
in  New  Zealand,  fancy  what  a  multitude  of 
people  could  exclaim  with  truth:  "The  house 
that  I  was  born  in  fell  last  night! " 


388 


Ill 

THE  PARLIAMENT  CLOSE 

TIME  has  wrought  its  changes  most  notably 
around  the  precinct  of  St.  Giles's  church. 
The  church  itself,  if  it  were  not  for  the  spire, 
would  be  unrecognisable;  the  Krames  are  all 
gone,  not  a  shop  is  left  to  shelter  in  its  buttresses ; 
and  zealous  magistrates  and  a  misguided  archi- 
tect have  shorn  the  design  of  manhood,  and  left 
it  poor,  naked,  and  pitifully  pretentious.  As 
St.  Giles's  must  have  had  in  former  days  a  rich 
and  quaint  appearance  now  forgotten,  so  the 
neighbourhood  was  bustling,  sunless,  and  ro- 
mantic. It  was  here  that  the  town  was  most 
overbuilt;  but  the  overbuilding  has  been  all 
rooted  out,  and  not  only  a  free  fairway  left 
along  the  High  Street  with  an  open  space  on 
either  side  of  the  church,  but  a  great  porthole, 
knocked  in  the  main  line  of  the  lands,  gives  an 
outlook  to  the  north  and  the  New  Town. 

There  is  a  silly  story  of  a  subterranean  pas- 
sage between  the  Castle  and  Holyrood,and  a  bold 
Highland  piper  who  volunteered  to  explore  its 
windings.  He  made  his  entrance  by  the  upper 

389 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

end,  playing  a  strathspey;  the  curious  footed  it 
after  him  down  the  street,  following  his  descent 
by  the  sound  of  the  chanter  from  below;  until 
all  of  a  sudden,  about  the  level  of  St.  Giles's,  the 
music  came  abruptly  to  an  end,  and  the  people 
in  the  street  stood  at  fault  with  hands  uplifted. 
Whether  he  was  choked  with  gases,  or  perished 
in  a  quag,  or  was  removed  bodily  by  the  Evil 
One,  remains  a  point  of  doubt;  but  the  piper 
has  never  again  been  seen  or  heard  of  from  that 
day  to  this.  Perhaps  he  wandered  down  into 
the  land  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  some  day, 
when  it  is  least  expected,  may  take  a  thought  to 
revisit  the  sunlit  upper  wrorld.  That  will  be  a 
strange  moment  for  the  cabmen  on  the  stance 
beside  St.  Giles's,  when  they  hear  the  drone  of 
his  pipes  reascending  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  below  their  horses'  feet. 

But  it  is  not  only  pipers  who  have  vanished, 
many  a  solid  bulk  of  masonry  has  been  likewise 
spirited  into  the  air.  Here,  for  example,  is  the 
shape  of  a  heart  let  into  the  causeway.  This 
was  the  site  of  the  Tolbooth,  the  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian, a  place  old  in  story  and  name-father 
to  a  noble  book.  The  walls  are  now  down  in 
the  dust ;  there  is  no  more  squalor  carceris  for 
merry  debtors,  no  more  cage  for  the  old  acknowl- 
edged prison-breaker;  but  the  sun  and  the  wind 
play  freely  over  the  foundations  of  the  jail. 
Nor  is  this  the  only  memorial  that  the  pavement 
keeps  of  former  days.  The  ancient  burying- 

390 


THE  PARLIAMENT  CLOSE 

ground  of  Edinburgh  lay  behind  St.  Giles's 
Church,  running  downhill  to  the  Cowgate  and 
covering  the  site  of  the  present  Parliament 
House.  It  has  disappeared  as  utterly  as  the 
prison  or  the  Luckenbooths ;  and  for  those  ignor- 
ant of  its  history,  I  know  only  one  token  that 
remains.  In  the  Parliament  Close,  trodden 
daily  underfoot  by  advocates,  two  letters  and  a 
date  mark  the  resting-place  of  the  man  who 
made  Scotland  over  again  in  his  own  image, 
the  indefatigable,  undissuadable  John  Knox. 
He  sleeps  within  call  of  the  church  that  so  often 
echoed  to  his  preaching. 

Hard  by  the  reformer,  a  bandy-legged  and 
garlanded  Charles  Second,  made  of  lead,  be- 
strides a  tun-bellied  charger.  The  King  has  his 
back  turned,  and,  as  you  look,  seems  to  be  trot- 
ting clumsily  away  from  such  a  dangerous  neigh- 
bour. Often,  for  hours  together,  these  two  will 
be  alone  in  the  Close,  for  it  lies  out  of  the  way 
of  all  but  legal  traffic.  On  one  side  the  south 
wall  of  the  church,  on  the  other  the  arcades  of 
the  Parliament  House,  enclose  this  irregular 
bight  of  causeway  and  describe  their  shadows 
on  it  in  the  sun.  At  either  end,  from  round  St. 
Giles's  buttresses,  you  command  a  look  into  the 
High  Street  with  its  motley  passengers ;  but  the 
stream  goes  by,  east  and  west,  and  leaves  the 
Parliament  Close  to  Charles  the  Second  and  the 
birds.  Once  in  a  while,  a  patient  crowd  may 
be  seen  loitering  there  all  day,  some  eating  fruit, 

391 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

some  reading  a  newspaper;  and  to  judge  by 
their  quiet  demeanour,  you  would  think  they 
were  waiting  for  a  distribution  of  soup-tickets. 
The  fact  is  far  otherwise ;  within  in  the  Justiciary 
Court  a  man  is  upon  trial  for  his  life,  and  these 
are  some  of  the  curious  for  whom  the  gallery 
was  found  too  narrow.  Towards  afternoon, 
if  the  prisoner  is  unpopular,  there  will  be  a  round 
of  hisses  when  he  is  brought  forth.  Once  in 
a  while,*too,  an  advocate  in  wig  and  gown,  hand 
upon  mouth,  full  of  pregnant  nods,  sweeps  to 
and  fro  in  the  arcade  listening  to  an  agent;  and 
at  certain  regular  hours  a  whole  tide  of  lawyers 
hurries  across  the  space. 

The  Parliament  Close  has  been  the  scene  of 
marking  incidents  in  Scottish  history.  Thus,  when 
the  Bishops  were  ejected  from  the  Convention 
in  1688,  "all  fourteen  of  them  gathered  together 
with  pale  faces  and  stood  in  a  cloud  in  the  Parlia- 
ment Close:"  poor  episcopal  personages  who 
were  done  with  fair  weather  for  life!  Some 
of  the  west-country  Societarians  standing  by, 
who  would  have  "rejoiced  more  than  in  great 
sums"  to  be  at  their  hanging,  hustled  them  so 
rudely  that  they  knocked  their  heads  together. 
It  was  not  magnanimous  behaviour  to  de- 
throned enemies;  but  one,  at  least,  of  the  Socie- 
tarians had  groaned  in  the  boots,  and  they  had 
all  seen  their  dear  friends  upon  the  scaffold. 
Again,  at  the  "woeful  Union,"  it  was  here  that 
people  crowded  to  escort  their  favourite  from 

392 


THE  PARLIAMENT  CLOSE 

the  last  of  Scottish  parliaments :  people  flushed 
with  nationality,  as  Boswell  would  have  said, 
ready  for  riotous  acts,  and  fresh  from  throwing 
stones  at  the  author  of  Robinson  Crusoe  as 
he  looked  out  of  window. 

One  of  the  pious  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
going  to  pass  his  trials  (examinations  as  we  now 
say)  for  the  Scottish  Bar,  beheld  the  Parliament 
close  open  and  had  a  vision  of  the  mouth  of  Hell. 
This,  and  small  wonder,  was  the  means  of  his 
conversion.  Nor  was  the  vision  unsuitable  to 
the  locality;  for  after  an  hospital,  what  uglier 
piece  is  there  in  civilisation  than  a  court  of  law? 
Hither  come  envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness  to  wrestle  it  out  in  public  tourney;  crimes, 
broken  fortunes,  severed  households,  the  knave 
and  his  victim,  gravitate  to  this  low  building 
with  the  arcade.  To  how  many  has  not  St. 
Giles's  bell  told  the  first  hour  after  ruin?  I 
think  I  see  them  pause  to  count  the  strokes,  and 
wander  on  again  into  the  moving  High  Street, 
stunned  and  sick  at  heart. 

A  pair  of  swing  doors  gives  admittance  to  a 
hall  with  a  carved  roof,  hung  with  legal  portraits, 
adorned  with  legal  statuary,  lighted  by  windows 
of  painted  glass,  and  warmed  by  three  vast  fires. 
This  is  the  Salle  des  pas  perdus  of  the  Scottish 
Bar.  Here,  by  a  ferocious  custom,  idle  youths 
must  promenade  from  ten  till  two.  From  end 
to  end,  singly  or  in  pairs  or  trios,  the  gowns 
and  wigs  go  back  and  forward.  Through  a 

393 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

hum  of  talk  and  footfalls,  the  piping  tones  of  a 
Macer  announce  a  fresh  cause  and  call  upon  the 
names  of  those  concerned.  Intelligent  men  have 
been  walking  here  daily  for  ten  or  twenty  years 
without  a  rag  of  business  or  a  shilling  of  reward. 
In  process  of  time,  they  may  perhaps  be  made 
the  Sheriff-Substitute  and  Fountain  of  Justice 
at  Lerwick  or  Tobermory.  There  is  nothing 
required,  you  would  say,  but  a  little  patience  and 
a  taste  for  exercise  and  bad  air.  To  breathe 
dust  and  bombazine,  to  feed  the  mind  on  cack- 
ling gossip,  to  hear  three  parts  of  a  case  and  drink 
a  glass  of  sherry,  to  long  with  indescribable 
longings  for  the  hour  when  a  man  may  slip 
out  of  his  travesty  and  devote  himself  to  golf 
for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  and  to  do  this  day 
by  day  and  year  after  year,  may  seem  so  small 
a  thing  to  the  inexperienced!  But  those  who 
have  made  the  experiment  are  of  a  different  way 
of  thinking,  and  count  it  the  most  arduous 
form  of  idleness. 

More  swing  doors  open  into  pigeon-holes 
where  Judges  of  the  First  Appeal  sit  singly, 
and  halls  of  audience  where  the  supreme  Lords 
sit  by  three  or  four.  Here,  you  may  see  Scott's 
place  within  the  bar,  where  he  wrote  many  a  page 
of  Waverley  novels  to  the  drone  of  judicial  pro- 
ceeding. You  will  hear  a  good  deal  of  shrewd- 
ness, and,  as  their  Lordships  do  not  altogether 
disdain  pleasantry,  a  fair  proportion  of  dry 
fun.  The  broadest  of  broad  Scotch  is  now  ban- 

394 


THE  PARLIAMENT  CLOSE 

ished  from  the  bench;  but  the  courts  still  retain 
a  certain  national  flavour.  We  have  a  solemn 
enjoyable  way  of  lingering  on  a  case.  We  treat 
law  as  a  fine  art,  and  relish  and  digest  a  good 
distinction.  There  is  no  hurry:  point  after 
point  must  be  rightly  examined  and  reduced  to 
principle;  judge  after  judge  must  utter  forth 
his  obiter  dicta  to  delighted  brethren. 

Besides  the  courts,  there  are  installed  under 
the  same  roof  no  less  than  three  libraries:  two 
of  no  mean  order;  confused  and  semi-subterran- 
ean, full  of  stairs  and  galleries;  where  you 
may  see  the  most  studious-looking  wigs  fishing 
out  novels  by  lanthorn  light,  in  the  very  place 
where  the  old  Privy  Council  tortured  Covenant- 
ers. As  the  Parliament  House  is  built  upon  a 
slope,  although  it  presents  only  one  story  to 
the  north,  it  measures  half-a-dozen  at  least  upon 
the  south;  and  range  after  range  of  vaults  ex- 
tend below  the  libraries.  Few  places  are  more 
characteristic  of  this  hilly  capital.  You  descend 
one  stone  stair  after  another,  and  wander,  by 
the  flicker  of  a  match,  in  a  labyrinth  of  stone 
cellars.  Now,  you  pass  below  the  Outer  Hall 
and  hear  overhead,  brisk  but  ghostly,  the  in- 
terminable pattering  of  legal  feet.  Now,  you 
come  upon  a  strong  door  with  a  wicket:  on  the 
other  side  are  the  cells  of  the  police  office  and 
the  trap-stair  that  gives  admittance  to  the  dock 
in  the  Justiciary  Court.  Many  a  foot  that  has 
gone  up  there  lightly  enough,  has  been  dead- 

395 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

heavy  in  the  descent.  Many  a  man's  life  has 
been  argued  away  from  him  during  long  hours  in 
the  court  above.  But  just  now  that  tragic 
stage  is  empty  and  silent  like  a  church  on  a 
week-day,  with  the  bench  all  sheeted  up  and 
nothing  moving  but  the  sunbeams  on  the  wall. 
A  little  farther  and  you  strike  upon  a  room,  not 
empty  like  the  rest,  but  crowded  with  produc- 
tions from  bygone  criminal  cases;  a  grim  lumber: 
lethal  weapons,  poisoned  organs  in  a  jar,  a  door 
with  a  shot  hole  through  the  panel,  behind  which 
a  man  fell  dead.  I  cannot  fancy  why  they 
should  preserve  them,  unless  it  were  against  the 
Judgment  Day.  At  length,  as  you  continue 
to  descend,  you  see  a  peep  of  yellow  gaslight 
and  hear  a  jostling,  whispering  noise  ahead; 
next  moment  you  turn  a  corner,  and  there, 
in  a  whitewashed  passage,  is  a  machinery  belt 
industriously  turning  on  its  wheels.  You  would 
think  the  engine  had  grown  there  of  its  own 
accord,  like  a  cellar  fungus,  and  would  soon  spin 
itself  out  and  fill  the  vaults  from  end  to  end  with 
its  mysterious  labours.  In  truth,  it  is  only  some 
gear  of  the  steam  ventilator;  and  you  will  find 
the  engineers  at  hand,  and  may  step  out  of  their 
door  into  the  sunlight.  For  all  this  while,  you 
have  not  been  descending  towards  the  earth's 
centre,  but  only  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  and  the 
foundations  of  the  Parliament  House ;  low  down, 
to  be  sure,  but  still  under  the  open  heaven  and 
in  a  field  of  grass.  The  daylight  shines  garishly 

396 


THE  PARLIAMENT  CLOSE 

on  the  back  windows  of  the  Irish  quarter;  on 
broken  shutters,  wry  gables,  old  palsied  houses 
on  the  brink  of  ruin,  a  crumbling  human  pig- 
sty fit  for  human  pigs.  There  are  few  signs  of 
life,  besides  a  scanty  washing  or  a  face  at  a  win- 
dow: the  dwellers  are  abroad,  but  they  will 
return  at  night  and  stagger  to  their  pallets. 


397 


IV 
LEGENDS 

THE  character  of  a  place  is  often  most  per- 
fectly expressed  in  its  associations.  An 
event  strikes  root  and  grows  into  a  legend,  when 
it  has  happened  amongst  congenial  surroundings. 
Ugly  actions,  above  all  in  ugly  places,  have  the 
true  romantic  quality,  and  become  an  undying 
property  of  their  scene.  To  a  man  like  Scott, 
the  different  appearances  of  nature  seemed  each 
to  contain  its  own  legend  ready  made,  which  it 
was  his  to  call  forth:  in  such  or  such  a  place,  only 
such  or  such  events  ought  with  propriety  to 
happen;  and  in  this  spirit  he  made  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake  for  Ben  Venue,  the  Heart  of  Midlothian 
for  Edinburgh,  and  the  Pirate,  so  indifferently 
written  but  so  romantically  conceived,  for  the 
desolate  islands  and  roaring  tideways  of  the 
North.  The  common  run  of  mankind  have, 
from  generation  to  generation,  an  instinct  almost 
as  delicate  as  that  of  Scott;  but  where  he  created 
new  things,  they  only  forget  what  is  unsuitable 
among  the  old;  and  by  survival  of  the  fittest, 
a  body  of  tradition  becomes  a  work  of  art.  So, 

398 


LEGENDS 

in  the  low  dens  and  high-flying  garrets  of  Edin- 
burgh, people  may  go  back  upon  dark  passages 
in  the  town's  adventures,  and  chill  their  marrow 
with  winter's  tales  about  the  fire;  tales  that  are 
singularly  apposite  and  characteristic,  not  only 
of  the  old  life,  but  of  the  very  constitution  of 
built  nature  in  that  part,  and  singularly  well 
qualified  to  add  horror  to  horror,  when  the  wind 
pipes  around  the  tall  lands,  and  hoots  adown 
arched  passages,  and  the  far-spread  wilderness 
of  city  lamps  keeps  quavering  and  flaring  in  the 
gusts. 

Here,  it  is  the  tale  of  Begbie  the  bank-porter, 
stricken  to  the  heart  at  a  blow  and  left  in  his 
blood  within  a  step  or  two  of  the  crowded  High 
Street.  There,  people  hush  their  voices  over 
Burke  and  Hare;  over  drugs  and  violated  graves, 
and  the  resurrection-men  smothering  their  vic- 
tims with  their  knees.  Here,  again,  the  fame  of 
Deacon  Brodie  is  kept  piously  fresh.  A  great 
man  in  his  day  was  the  Deacon;  well  seen  in 
good  society,  crafty  with  his  hands  as  a  cabinet- 
maker, and  one  who  could  sing  a  song  with  taste. 
Many  a  citizen  was  proud  to  welcome  the  Deacon 
to  supper,  and  dismissed  him  with  regret  at 
a  timeous  hour,  who  would  have  been  vastly 
disconcerted  had  he  known  how  soon,  and  in 
what  guise,  his  visitor  returned.  Many  stories 
are  told  of  this  redoubtable  Edinburgh  burglar, 
but  the  one  I  have  in  my  mind  most  vividly 
gives  the  key  of  all  the  rest.  A  friend  of  Brodie's, 

399 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

nested  some  way  towards  heaven  in  one  of  these 
great  lands,  had  told  him  of  a  projected  visit 
to  the  country,  and  afterwards  detained  by  some 
affairs,  put  it  off  and  stayed  the  night  in  town. 
The  good  man  had  lain  some  time  awake;  it 
was  far  on  in  the  small  hours  by  the  Tron  bell ; 
when  suddenly  there  came  a  creak,  a  jar,  a  faint 
light.  Softly  he  clambered  out  of  bed  and  up 
to  a  false  window  which  looked  upon  another 
room,  and  there,  by  the  glimmer  of  a  thieves' 
lantern,  was  his  good  friend  the  Deacon  in  a 
mask.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  town  and  the 
town's  manners  that  this  little  episode  should 
have  been  quietly  tided  over,  and  quite  a  good 
time  elapsed  before  a  great  robbery,  an  escape, 
a  Bow  Street  runner,  a  cock-fight,  an  apprehen- 
sion in  a  cupboard  in  Amsterdam,  and  a  last 
step  into  the  air  off  his  own  greatly  improved 
gallows  drop,  brought  the  career  of  Deacon 
William  Brodie  to  an  end.  But  still,  by  the 
mind's  eye,  he  may  be  seen,  a  man  harassed 
below  a  mountain  of  duplicity,  slinking  from  a 
magistrate's  supper-room  to  a  thieves'  ken, 
and  pickeering  among  the  closes  by  the  flicker 
of  a  dark  lamp. 

Or  where  the  Deacon  is  out  of  favour,  perhaps 
some  memory  lingers  of  the  great  plagues,  and 
of  fatal  houses  still  unsafe  to  enter  within  the 
memory  of  man.  For  in  time  of  pestilence  the 
discipline  had  been  sharp  and  sudden,  and  what 
we  now  call  "stamping  out  contagion"  was 

400 


LEGENDS 

carried  on  with  deadly  rigour.  The  officials,  in 
their  gowns  of  grey,  with  a  white  St.  Andrew's 
cross  on  back  and  breast,  and  a  white  cloth 
carried  before  them  on  a  staff,  perambulated 
the  city,  adding  the  terror  of  man's  justice  to 
the  fear  of  God's  visitation.  The  dead  they 
buried  on  the  Borough  Muir;  the  living  who 
had  concealed  the  sickness  were  drowned,  if  they 
were  women,  in  the  Quarry  Holes,  and  if  they 
were  men,  were  hanged  and  gibbeted  at  their 
own  doors;  and  wherever  the  evil  had  passed, 
furniture  was  destroyed  and  houses  closed.  And 
the  most  bogeyish  part  of  the  story  is  about 
such  houses.  Two  generations  back  they  still 
stood  dark  and  empty;  people  avoided  them  as 
they  passed  by;  the  boldest  schoolboy  only 
shouted  through  the  key-hole  and  made  off;  for 
within,  it  was  supposed,  the  plague  lay  ambushed 
like  a  basilisk,  ready  to  flow  forth  and  spread 
blain  and  pustule  through  the  city.  What  a 
terrible  next-door  neighbour  for  superstitious 
citizens!  A  rat  scampering  within  would  send 
a  shudder  through  the  stoutest  heart.  Here, 
if  you  like,  was  a  sanitary  parable,  addressed 
by  our  uncleanly  forefathers  to  their  own  neglect. 
And  then  we  have  Major  Weir;  for  although 
even  his  house  is  now  demolished,  old  Edinburgh 
cannot  clear  herself  of  his  unholy  memory. 
He  and  his  sister  lived  together  in  an  odour 
of  sour  piety.  She  was  a  marvellous  spinster; 
he  had  a  rare  gift  of  supplication,  and  was  known 

401 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

among  devout  admirers  by  the  name  of  An- 
gelical Thomas.  "He  was  a  tall,  black  man, 
and  ordinarily  looked  down  to  the  ground;  a 
grim  countenance,  and  a  big  nose.  His  garb 
was  still  a  cloak,  and  somewhat  dark,  and  he 
never  went  without  his  staff."  How  it  came 
about  that  Angelical  Thomas  was  burned  in 
company  with  his  staff,  and  his  sister  in  gentler 
manner  hanged,  and  whether  these  two  were 
simply  religious  maniacs  of  the  more  furious 
order,  or  had  real  as  wrell  as  imaginary  sins 
upon  their  old-world  shoulders,  are  points  hap- 
pily beyond  the  reach  of  our  intention.  At 
least,  it  is  suitable  enough  that  out  of  this  super- 
stitious city  some  such  example  should  have 
been  put  forth:  the  outcome  and  fine  flower  of 
dark  and  vehement  religion.  And  at  least  the 
facts  struck  the  public  fancy  and  brought  forth 
a  remarkable  family  of  myths.  It  would  appear 
that  the  Major's  staff  went  upon  his  errands, 
and  even  ran  before  him  with  a  lantern  on  dark 
nights.  Gigantic  females,  "  stentoriously  laugh- 
ing and  gaping  with  tehees  of  laughter"  at  un- 
seasonable hours  of  night  and  morning,  haunted 
the  purlieus  of  his  abode.  His  house  fell  under 
such  a  load  of  infamy  that  no  one  dared  to  sleep 
in  it,  until  municipal  improvement  levelled  the 
structure  with  the  ground.  And  my  father  has 
often  been  told  in  the  nursery  how  the  devil's 
coach,  drawn  by  six  coal-black  horses  with 
fiery  eyes,  would  drive  at  night  into  the  West 

402 


LEGENDS 

Bow,  and  belated  people  might  see  the  dead 
Major  through  the  glasses. 

Another  legend  is  that  of  the  two  maiden 
sisters.  A  legend  I  am  afraid  it  may  be,  in  the 
most  discreditable  meaning  of  the  term;  or  per- 
haps something  worse — a  mere  yesterday's  fic- 
tion. But  it  is  a  story  of  some  vitality,  and  is 
worthy  of  a  place  in  the  Edinburgh  calendar. 
This  pair  inhabited  a  single  room;  from  the 
facts,  it  must  have  been  double-bedded;  and  it 
may  have  been  of  some  dimensions :  but  when  all 
is  said,  it  was  a  single  room.  Here  our  two 
spinsters  fell  out — on  some  point  of  controver- 
sial divinity  belike:  but  fell  out  so  bitterly  that 
there  was  never  a  word  spoken  between  them, 
black  or  white,  from  that  day  forward.  You 
would  have  thought  they  would  separate:  but 
no ;  whether  from  lack  of  means,  or  the  Scottish 
fear  of  scandal,  they  continued  to  keep  house 
together  where  they  were.  A  chalk  line  drawn 
upon  the  floor  separated  their  two  domains; 
it  bisected  the  doorway  and  the  fireplace,  so 
that  each  could  go  out  and  in,  and  do  her  cook- 
ing, without  violating  the  territory  of  the  other. 
So,  for  years,  they  co-existed  in  a  hateful  silence; 
their  meals,  their  ablutions,  their  friendly  visi- 
tors, exposed  to  an  unfriendly  scrutiny;  and 
at  night,  in  the  dark  watches,  each  could  hear 
the  breathing  of  her  enemy.  Never  did  four 
walls  look  down  upon  an  uglier  spectacle  than 
these  sisters  rivalling  in  unsisterliness.  Here 

403 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

is  a  canvas  for  Hawthorne  to  have  turned  into  a 
cabinet  picture — he  had  a  Puritanic  vein,  which 
would  have  fitted  him  to  treat  this  Puritanic 
horror;  he  could  have  shown  them  to  us  in  their 
sicknesses  and  at  their  hideous  twin  devotions, 
thumbing  a  pair  of  great  Bibles,  or  praying 
aloud  for  each  other's  penitence  with  marrowy 
emphasis;  now  each,  with  kilted  petticoat,  at 
her  own  corner  of  the  fire  on  some  tempestuous 
evening;  now  sitting  each  at  her  window,  looking 
out  upon  the  summer  landscape  sloping  far 
below  them  towards  the  firth,  and  the  field- 
paths  where  they  had  wandered  hand  in  hand; 
or,  as  age  and  infirmity  grew  upon  them  and 
prolonged  their  toilettes,  and  their  hands  began 
to  tremble  and  their  heads  to  nod  involuntarily, 
growing  only  the  more  steeled  in  enmity  with 
years ;  until  one  fine  day,  at  a  word,  a  look,  a 
visit,  or  the  approach  of  death,  their  hearts 
would  melt  and  the  chalk  boundary  be  over- 
stepped for  ever. 

Alas!  to  those  who  know  the  ecclesiastical 
history  of  the  race — the  most  perverse  and  mel- 
ancholy in  man's  annals — this  will  seem  only  a 
figure  of  much  that  is  typical  of  Scotland  and 
her  high-seated  capital  above  the  Forth — a  figure 
so  grimly  realistic  that  it  may  pass  with  strangers 
for  a  caricature.  We  are  wonderful  patient 
haters  for  conscience'  sake  up  here  in  the 
North.  I  spoke,  in  the  first  of  these  papers,  of 
the  Parliament  of  the  Established  and  Free 

404 


LEGENDS 

Churches,  and  how  they  can  hear  each  other 
singing  psalms  across  the  street.  There  is 
but  a  street  between  them  in  space,  but  a 
shadow  between  them  in  principle ;  and  yet  there 
they  sit,  enchanted,  and  in  damnatory  accents 
pray  for  each  other's  growth  in  grace.  It  would 
be  well  if  there  were  no  more  than  two;  but  the 
sects  in  Scotland  form  a  large  family  of  sisters, 
and  the  chalk  lines  are  thickly  drawn,  and  run 
through  the  midst  of  many  private  homes. 
Edinburgh  is  a  city  of  churches,  as  though  it 
were  a  place  of  pilgrimage.  You  will  see  four 
within  a  stone-cast  at  the  head  of  the  West  Bow. 
Some  are  crowded  to  the  doors ;  some  are  empty 
like  monuments ;  and  yet  you  will  ever  find  new 
ones  in  the  building.  Hence  that  surprising 
clamour  of  church  bells  that  suddenly  breaks 
out  upon  the  Sabbath  morning,  from  Trinity 
and  the  sea-skirts  to  Morningside  on  the  borders 
of  the  hills.  I  have  heard  the  chimes  of  Oxford 
playing  their  symphony  in  a  golden  autumn 
morning,  and  beautiful  it  was  to  hear.  But  in 
Edinburgh  all  manner  of  loud  bells  join,  or  rather 
disjoin,  in  one  swelling,  brutal  babblement 
of  noise.  Now  one  overtakes  another,  and  now 
lags  behind  it;  now  five  or  six  all  strike  on  the 
pained  tympanum  at  the  same  punctual  instant 
of  time,  and  make  together  a  dismal  chord  of 
discord;  and  now  for  a  second  all  seem  to  have 
conspired  to  hold  their  peace.  Indeed,  there 
are  not  many  uproars  in  this  world  more  dismal 

405 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

than  that  of  the  Sabbath  bells  in  Edinburgh:  a 
harsh  ecclesiastical  tocsin;  the  outcry  of  incon- 
gruous orthodoxies,  calling  on  every  separate 
conventicler  to  put  up  a  protest,  each  in  his  own 
synagogue,  against  "right-hand  extremes  and 
left-hand  defections."  And  surely  there  are 
few  worse  extremes  than  this  extremity  of  zeal; 
and  few  more  deplorable  defections  than  this 
disloyalty  to  Christian  love.  Shakespeare  wrote 
a  comedy  of  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing." 
The  Scottish  nation  made  a  fantastic  tragedy 
on  the  same  subject.  And  it  is  for  the  success 
of  this  remarkable  piece  that  these  bells  are 
sounded  every  Sabbath  morning  on  the  hills 
above  the  Forth.  How  many  of  them  might 
rest  silent  in  the  steeple,  how  many  of  these  ugly 
churches  might  be  demolished  and  turned  once 
more  into  useful  building  material,  if  people 
who  think  almost  exactly  the  same  thoughts 
about  religion  would  condescend  to  worship 
God  under  the  same  roof!  But  there  are  the 
chalk  lines.  And  which  is  to  pocket  pride,  and 
speak  the  foremost  word? 


406 


IT  was  Queen  Mary  who  threw  open  the  gar- 
dens of  the  Grey  Friars:  a  new  and  semi- 
rural  cemetery  in  those  days,  although  it  has 
grown  an  antiquity  in  its  turn  and  been  super- 
seded by  half-a-dozen  others.  The  Friars  must 
have  had  a  pleasant  time  on  summer  evenings; 
for  their  gardens  were  situated  to  a  wish,  with 
the  tall  castle  and  the  tallest  of  the  Castle  Crags 
in  front.  Even  now,  it  is  one  of  our  famous 
Edinburgh  points  of  view;  and  strangers  are 
led  thither  to  see,  by  yet  another  instance,  how 
strangely  the  city  lies  upon  her  hills.  The 
enclosure  is  of  an  irregular  shape;  the  double 
church  of  Old  and  New  Greyfriars  stands  on  the 
level  at  the  top ;  a  few  thorns  are  dotted  here  and 
there,  and  the  ground  falls  by  terrace  and  steep 
slope  towards  the  north.  The  open  shows  many 
slabs  and  table  tombstones;  and  all  round  the 
margin,  the  place  is  girt  by  an  array  of  aristo- 
cratic mausoleums  appallingly  adorned. 

Setting  aside  the  tombs  of  Roubilliac,  which 
407 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

belong  to  the  heroic  order  of  graveyard  art,  we 
Scotch  stand,  to  my  fancy,  highest  among  na- 
tions in  the  matter  of  grimly  illustrating  death. 
We  seem  to  love  for  their  own  sake  the  emblems 
of  time  and  the  great  change ;  and  even  around 
country  churches  you  will  find  a  wonderful  ex- 
hibition of  skulls,  and  crossbones,  and  noseless 
angels,  and  trumpets  pealing  for  the  Judgment 
Day.  Every  mason  was  a  pedestrian  Holbein: 
he  had  a  deep  consciousness  of  death,  and  loved 
to  put  its  terrors  pithily  before  the  churchyard 
loiterer;  he  was  brimful  of  rough  hints  upon 
mortality,  and  any  dead  farmer  was  seized 
upon  to  be  a  text.  The  classical  examples  of 
this  art  are  in  Greyfriars.  In  their  time,  these 
were  doubtless  costly  monuments,  and  reckoned 
of  a  very  elegant  proportion  by  contemporaries ; 
and  now,  when  the  elegance  is  not  so  apparent, 
the  significance  remains.  You  may  perhaps 
look  with  a  smile  on  the  profusion  of  Latin 
mottoes — some  crawling  endwise  up  the  shaft 
of  a  pillar,  some  issuing  on  a  scroll  from  angels' 
trumpets — on  the  emblematic  horrors,  the  fig- 
ures rising  headless  from  the  grave,  and  all  the 
traditional  ingenuities  in  which  it  pleased  our 
fathers  to  set  forth  their  sorrow  for  the  dead 
and  their  sense  of  earthly  mutability.  But  it  is 
not  a  hearty  sort  of  mirth.  Each  ornament 
may  have  been  executed  by  the  merriest  appren- 
tice, whistling  as  he  plied  the  mallet;  but  the 
original  meaning  of  each,  and  the  combined  effect 

408 


GREYFRIARS 

of  so  many  of  them  in  this  quiet  enclosure,  is 
serious  to  the  point  of  melancholy. 

Round  a  great  part  of  the  circuit,  houses  of  a 
low  class  present  their  backs  to  the  churchyard. 
Only  a  few  inches  separate  the  living  from  the 
dead.  Here,  a  window  is  partly  blocked  up 
by  the  pediment  of  a  tomb;  there,  where  the 
street  falls  far  below  the  level  of  the  graves,  a 
chimney  has  been  trained  up  the  back  of  a  monu- 
ment, and  a  red  pot  looks  vulgarly  over  from  be- 
hind. A  damp  smell  of  the  graveyard  finds  its 
way  into  houses  where  workmen  sit  at  meat. 
Domestic  life  on  a  small  scale  goes  forward 
visibly  at  the  windows.  The  very  solitude  and 
stillness  of  the  enclosure,  which  lies  apart  from 
the  town's  traffic,  serves  to  accentuate  the  con- 
trast. As  you  walk  upon  the  graves,  you  see 
children  scattering  crumbs  to  feed  the  sparrows; 
you  hear  people  singing  or  washing  dishes,  or 
the  sound  of  tears  and  castigation;  the  linen  on  a 
clothes-pole  flaps  against  funereal  sculpture;  or 
perhaps  the  cat  slips  over  the  lintel  and  descends 
on  a  memorial  urn.  And  as  there  is  nothing 
else  astir,  these  incongruous  sights  and  noises 
take  hold  on  the  attention  and  exaggerate  the 
sadness  of  the  place. 

Greyfriars  is  continually  overrun  by  cats.  I 
have  seen  one  afternoon  as  many  as  thirteen 
of  them  seated  on  the  grass  beside  old  Milne, 
the  Master  Builder,  all  sleek  and  fat,  and  com- 
placently blinking,  as  if  they  had  fed  upon 

409 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

strange  meats.  Old  Milne  was  chanting  with 
the  saints,  as  we  may  hope,  and  cared  little  for 
the  company  about  his  grave;  but  I  confess 
the  spectacle  had  an  ugly  side  for  me;  and  I 
was  glad  to  step  forward  and  raise  my  eyes  to 
where  the  castle  and  the  roofs  of  the  Old  Town, 
and  the  spire  of  the  Assembly  Hall,  stood  de- 
ployed against  the  sky  with  the  colourless  pre- 
cision of  engraving.  An  open  outlook  is  to  be 
desired  from  a  churchyard,  and  a  sight  of  the 
sky  and  some  of  the  world's  beauty  relieves  a 
mind  from  morbid  thoughts. 

I  shall  never  forget  one  visit.  It  was  a  grey, 
dropping  day;  the  grass  was  strung  with  rain- 
drops; and  the  people  in  the  houses  kept  hang- 
ing out  their  shirts  and  petticoats  and  angrily 
taking  them  in  again,  as  the  weather  turned 
from  wet  to  fair  and  back  again.  A  gravedigger 
and  a  friend  of  his,  a  gardener  from  the  country, 
accompanied  me  into  one  after  another  of  the 
cells  and  little  courtyards  in  which  it  gratified 
the  wealthy  of  old  days  to  enclose  their  old  bones 
from  neighbourhood.  In  one,  under  a  sort  of 
shrine,  we  found  a  forlorn  human  effigy,  very 
realistically  executed  down  to  the  detail  of  his 
ribbed  stockings,  and  holding  in  his  hand  a  ticket 
with  the  date  of  his  demise.  He  looked  most 
pitiful  and  ridiculous,  shut  up  by  himself  in  his 
aristocratic  precinct,  like  a  bad  old  boy  or  an 
inferior  forgotten  deity  under  a  new  dispensa- 
tion; the  burdocks  grew  familiarly  about  his 

410 


GREYFRIARS 

feet,  the  rain  dripped  all  round  him;  and  the 
world  maintained  the  most  entire  indifference 
as  to  who  he  was  or  whither  he  had  gone.  In 
another,  a  vaulted  tomb,  handsome  externally 
but  horrible  inside  with  damp  and  cobwebs, 
there  were  three  mounds  of  black  earth  and  an 
uncovered  thigh  bone.  This  was  the  place  of 
interment,  it  appeared,  of  a  family  with  whom 
the  gardener  had  been  long  in  service.  He  was 
among  old  acquaintances.  "This '11  be  Miss 
Marg'et's,"  said  he,  giving  the  bone  a  friendly 

kick.     "The    auld !"     I    have    always    an 

uncomfortable  feeling  in  a  graveyard,  at  sight 
of  so  many  tombs  to  perpetuate  memories  best 
forgotten;  but  I  never  had  the  impression  so 
strongly  as  that  day.  People  had  been  at  some 
expense  in  both  these  cases :  to  provoke  a  melan- 
choly feeling  of  derision  in  the  one,  and  an  insult- 
ing epithet  in  the  other.  The  proper  inscription 
for  the  most  part  of  mankind,  I  began  to  think, 
is  the  cynical  jeer,  eras  tibi.  That,  if  anything, 
will  stop  the  mouth  of  a  carper;  since  it  both 
admits  the  worst  and  carries  the  war  trium- 
phantly into  the  enemy's  camp. 

Grey  friars  is  a  place  of  many  associations. 
There  was  one  window  in  a  house  at  the  lower 
end,  now  demolished,  which  was  pointed  out  to 
me  by  the  gravedigger  as  a  spot  of  legendary 
interest.  Burke,  the  resurrection  man,  infamous 
for  so  many  murders  at  five  shillings  a  head, 
used  to  sit  thereat,  with  pipe  and  nightcap,  to 

411 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

watch  burials  going  forward  on  the  green.  In  a 
tomb  higher  up,  which  must  then  have  been 
but  newly  finished,  John  Knox,  according  to  the 
same  informant,  had  taken  refuge  in  a  turmoil 
of  the  Reformation.  Behind  the  church  is  the 
haunted  mausoleum  of  Sir  George  Mackenzie: 
Bloody  Mackenzie,  Lord  Advocate  in  the  Cove- 
nanting troubles  and  author  of  some  pleasing 
sentiments  on  toleration.  Here,  in  the  last 
century,  an  old  Heriot's  Hospital  boy  once 
harboured  from  the  pursuit  of  the  police.  The 
Hospital  is  next  door  to  Greyfriars — a  courtly 
building  among  lawns,  where,  on  Founder's 
Day,  you  may  see  a  multitude  of  children  play- 
ing Kiss-in-the-Ring  and  Round  the  Mulberry- 
bush.  Thus,  when  the  fugitive  had  managed 
to  conceal  himself  in  the  tomb,  his  old  school- 
mates had  a  hundred  opportunities  to  bring  him 
food;  and  there  he  lay  in  safety  till  a  ship  was 
found  to  smuggle  him  abroad.  But  his  must 
have  been  indeed  a  heart  of  brass,  to  he  all  day 
and  night  alone  with  the  dead  persecutor;  and 
other  lads  were  far  from  emulating  him  in  cour- 
age. When  a  man's  soul  is  certainly  in  hell,  his 
body  will  scarce  lie  quiet  in  a  tomb  however 
costly;  some  time  or  other  the  door  must  open, 
and  the  reprobate  come  forth  in  the  abhorred 
garments  of  the  grave.  It  was  thought  a  high 
piece  of  prowess  to  knock  at  the  Lord  Advo- 
cate's mausoleum  and  challenge  him  to  appear. 
"Bluidy  Mackenzie,  come  oot  if  ye  daur'I"  sang 

412 


GREYFRIARS 

the  foolhardy  urchins.  But  Sir  George  had 
other  affairs  on  hand ;  and  the  author  of  an  essay 
on  toleration  continues  to  sleep  peacefully 
among  the  many  whom  he  so  intolerantly 
helped  to  slay. 

For  this  infelix  campus,  as  it  is  dubbed  in  one 
of  its  own  inscriptions — an  inscription  over  which 
Dr.  Johnson  passed  a  critical  eye — is  in  many 
ways  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  men  whom 
Mackenzie  persecuted.  It  was  here,  on  the 
flat  tombstones,  that  the  Covenant  was  signed 
by  an  enthusiastic  people.  In  the  long  arm 
of  the  churchyard  that  extends  to  Lauriston,  the 
prisoners  from  Bothwell  Bridge — fed  on  bread 
and  water,  and  guarded,  life  for  life,  by  vigilant 
marksmen — lay  five  months  looking  for  the 
scaffold  or  the  plantations.  And  while  the 
good  work  was  going  forward  in  the  Grass- 
market,  idlers  in  Greyfriars  might  have  heard 
the  throb  of  the  military  drums  that  drowned 
the  voices  of  the  martyrs.  Nor  is  this  all:  for 
down  in  the  corner  farthest  from  Sir  George, 
there  stands  a  monument  dedicated,  in  uncouth 
Covenanting  verse,  to  all  who  lost  their  lives  in 
that  contention.  There  is  no  moorsman  shot 
in  a  snow  shower  beside  Irongray  or  Co'monell; 
there  is  not  one  of  the  two  hundred  who  were 
drowned  off  the  Orkneys;  nor  so  much  as  a  poor, 
over-driven,  Covenanting  slave  in  the  American 
plantations;  but  can  lay  claim  to  a  share  in  that 
memorial  and,  if  such  things  interest  just  men 

413 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

among  the  shades,  can  boast  he  has  a  monu- 
ment on  earth  as  well  as  Julius  Caesar  or  the 
Pharaohs.  Where  they  may  all  he,  I  know  not. 
Far-scattered  bones,  indeed!  But  if  the  reader 
cares  tc  learn  how  some  of  them — or  some  part 
of  some  of  them — found  their  way  at  length  to 
such  honourable  sepulture,  let  him  listen  to  the 
words  of  one  who  was  their  comrade  in  life  and 
their  apologist  when  they  w^ere  dead.  Some 
of  the  insane  controversial  matter  I  omit,  as 
well  as  some  digressions,  but  leave  the  rest  in 
Patrick  Walker's  language  and  orthography:— 

"The  never  to  be  forgotten  Mr.  James  Renwick  told  me,  that 
he  was  Witness  to  their  Public  Murder  at  the  Gallowlee,  between 
Leith  and  Edinburgh,  when  he  saw  the  Hangman  hash  and  hagg 
off  all  their  Five  Heads,  with  Patrick  Foreman's  Right  Hand: 
Their  Bodies  were  all  buried  at  the  Gallows  Foot;  their  Heads, 
with  Patrick's  Hand,  were  brought  and  put  upon  five  Pikes  on 
the  Pleasaunce-Port.  .  .  .  Mr.  Renwick  told  me  also  that  it 
was  the  first  public  Action  that  his  Hand  was  at,  to  conveen 
Friends,  and  lift  their  murthered  Bodies,  and  carried  them  to  the 
West  Churchyard  of  Edinburgh," — not  Greyfriars,  this  time, — 
"and  buried  them  there.  Then  they  came  about  the  City  .  .  . 
and  took  down  these  Five  Heads  and  that  Hand ;  and  Day  being 
come,  they  went  quickly  up  the  Pleasaunce;  and  when  they  came 
to  Lauristoun  Yards,  upon  the  South-side  of  the  City,  they  durst 
not  venture,  being  so  light,  to  go  and  bury  their  Heads  with  their 
Bodies,  which  they  designed;  it  being  present  Death,  if  any  of 
them  had  been  found.  Alexander  Tweedie,  a  Friend,  being  with 
them,  who  at  that  Time  was  Gardner  in  these  Yards,  concluded 
to  bury  them  in  his  Yard,  being  in  a  Box  (wrapped  in  Linen), 
where  they  lay  45  Years  except  3  Days,  being  executed  upon  the 
10th  of  October  1681,  and  found  the  7th  Day  of  October  1726. 
That  Piece  of  Ground  lay  for  some  Years  unlaboured ;  and  trench- 
ing it,  the  Gardner  found  them,  which  affrighted  him;  the  Box 

414 


GREYFRIARS 

was  consumed.  Mr.  Schaw,  the  Owner  of  these  Yards,  caused 
lift  them,  and  lay  them  upon  a  Table  in  his  Summer-house: 
Mr.  Schaw's  mother  was  so  kind,  as  to  cut  out  a  Linen-cloth,  and 
cover  them.  They  lay  Twelve  Days  there,  where  all  had  Access 
to  see  them.  Alexander  Tweedie,  the  foresaid  Gardner,  said, 
when  dying,  There  was  a  Treasure  hid  in  his  Yard,  but  neither 
Gold  nor  Silver.  Daniel  Tweedie,  his  Son,  came  along  with  me 
to  that  Yard,  and  told  me  that  his  Father  planted  a  white  Rose- 
bush above  them,  and  farther  down  the  Yard  a  red  Rose-bush, 
which  were  more  fruitful  than  any  other  Bush  in  the  Yard. 
.  .  .  Many  came" — to  see  the  heads — "out  of  Curiosity; 
yet  I  rejoiced  to  see  so  many  concerned  grave  Men  and  Women 
favouring  the  Dust  of  our  Martyrs.  There  were  Six  of  us  con- 
cluded to  bury  them  upon  the  Nineteenth  Day  of  October  1726, 
and  every  One  of  us  to  acquaint  Friends  of  the  Day  and  Hour, 
being  Wednesday,  the  Day  of  the  Week  on  which  most  of  them 
were  executed,  and  at  4  of  the  Clock  at  Night,  being  the  Hour 
that  most  of  them  went  to  their  resting  Graves.  We  caused 
make  a  compleat  Coffin  for  them  in  Black,  with  four  Yards  of 
fine  Linen,  the  way  that  our  Martyrs  Corps  were  managed 
.  .  .  Accordingly  we  kept  the  aforesaid  Day  and  Hour,  and 
doubled  the  Linen,  and  laid  the  Half  of  it  below  them,  their 
nether  Jaws  being  parted  from  their  Heads;  but  being  young 
Men,  their  Teeth  remained.  All  were  Witness  to  the  Holes  in 
each  of  their  Heads,  which  the  Hangman  broke  with  his  Hammer ; 
and  according  to  the  Bigness  of  their  Sculls,  we  laid  the  Jaws  to 
them,  and  drew  the  other  Half  of  the  Linen  above  them,  and 
stufft  the  Coffin  with  Shavings.  Some  prest  hard  to  go  thorow 
the  chief  Parts  of  the  City  as  was  done  at  the  Revolution;  but 
this  we  refused,  considering  that  it  looked  airy  and  frothy,  to 
make  such  Show  of  them,  and  inconsistent  with  the  solid  serious 
Observing  of  such  an  affecting,  surprizing  unheard-of  Dis- 
pensation: But  took  the  ordinary  Way  of  other  Burials  from  that 
Place,  to  wit,  we  went  east  the  Back  of  the  Wall,  and  in  at  Bristo- 
Port,  and  down  the  Way  to  the  Head  of  the  Cowgate,  and  turned 
up  to  the  Church-yard,  where  they  were  interred  closs  to  the 
Martyrs  Tomb,  with  the  greatest  Multitude  of  People  Old  and 
Young,  Men  and  Women,  Ministers  and  others,  that  ever  I  saw 
together." 

415 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

And  so  there  they  were  at  last,  in  "their 
resting  graves."  So  long  as  men  do  their  duty, 
even  if  it  be  greatly  in  a  misapprehension,  they 
will  be  leading  pattern  lives ;  and  whether  or  not 
they  come  to  lie  beside  a  martyrs'  monument 
we  may  be  sure  they  will  find  a  safe  haven  some- 
where in  the  providence  of  God.  It  is  not  well 
to  think  of  death,  unless  we  temper  the  thought 
with  that  of  heroes  who  despised  it.  Upon 
what  ground,  is  of  small  account;  if  it  be  only 
the  bishop  who  was  burned  for  his  faith  in  the 
antipodes,  his  memory  lightens  the  heart  and 
makes  us  walk  undisturbed  among  graves. 
And  so  the  martyrs'  monument  is  a  wholesome 
heartsome  spot  in  the  field  of  the  dead;  and  as 
we  look  upon  it,  a  brave  influence  comes  to  us 
from  the  land  of  those  who  have  won  their  dis- 
charge and, in  another  phraseof  Patrick  Walker's, 
got  "cleanly  off  the  stage." 


416 


VI 

NEW  TOWN:  TOWN  AND 
COUNTRY 

IT  is  as  much  a  matter  of  course  to  decry  the 
New  Town  as  to  exalt  the  Old;  and  the  most 
celebrated  authorities  have  picked  out  this 
quarter  as  the  very  emblem  of  what  is  condemna- 
ble  in  architecture.  Much  may  be  said,  much 
indeed  has  been  said,  upon  the  text;  but  to 
the  unsophisticated,  who  call  anything  pleasing 
if  it  only  pleases  them,  the  New  Town  of  Edin- 
burgh seems,  in  itself,  not  only  gay  and  airy, 
but  highly  picturesque.  An  old  skipper,  in- 
vincibly ignorant  of  all  theories  of  the  sublime 
and  beautiful,  once  propounded  as  his  most 
radiant  notion  for  Paradise:  "The  New  Town  of 
Edinburgh,  with  the  wind  the  matter  of  a  point 
free."  He  has  now  gone  to  that  sphere  where 
all  good  tars  are  promised  pleasant  weather  in 
the  song,  and  perhaps  his  thoughts  fly  somewhat 
higher.  But  there  are  bright  and  temperate 
days — with  soft  air  coming  from  the  inland  hills, 
military  music  sounding  bravely  from  the  hollow 
of  the  gardens,  the  flags  all  waving  on  the  palaces 

417 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

of  Princes  Street — when  I  have  seen  the  town 
through  a  sort  of  glory,  and  shaken  hands  in 
sentiment  with  the  old  sailor.  And  indeed,  for  a 
man  who  has  been  much  tumbled  round  Or- 
cadian skerries,  what  scene  could  be  more  agree- 
able to  witness?  On  such  a  day,  the  valley 
wears  a  surprising  air  of  festival.  It  seems  (I 
do  not  know  how  else  to  put  my  meaning)  as  if 
it  were  a  trifle  too  good  to  be  true.  It  is  what 
Paris  ought  to  be.  It  has  the  scenic  quality 
that  would  best  set  off  a  life  of  unthinking,  open- 
air  diversion.  It  was  meant  by  nature  for  the 
realisation  of  the  society  of  comic  operas.  And 
you  can  imagine,  if  the  climate  were  but  to- 
wardly,  how  all  the  world  and  his  wife  would 
flock  into  these  gardens  in  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
to  hear  cheerful  music,  to  sip  pleasant  drinks, 
to  see  the  moon  rise  from  behind  Arthur's  Seat 
and  shine  upon  the  spires  and  monuments  and 
the  green  tree-tops,  in  the  valley.  Alas!  and 
the  next  morning  the  rain  is  splashing  on  the 
window,  and  the  passengers  flee  along  Princes 
Street  before  the  galloping  squalls. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  original  design 
was  faulty  and  short-sighted,  and  did  not  fully 
profit  by  the  capabilities  of  the  situation.  The 
architect  was  essentially  a  town  bird,  and  he 
laid  out  the  modern  city  with  a  view  to  street 
scenery,  and  to  street  scenery  alone.  The  coun- 
try did  not  enter  into  his  plan;  he  had  never 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  hills.  If  he  had  so  chosen, 

418 


NEW  TOWN:  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

every  street  upon  the  northern  slope  might  have 
been  a  noble  terrace  and  commanded  an  exten- 
sive and  beautiful  view.  But  the  space  has  been 
too  closely  built;  many  of  the  houses  front  the 
wrong  way,  intent,  like  the  Man  with  the  Muck- 
Rake,  on  what  is  not  worth  observation,  and 
standing  discourteously  back-foremost  in  the 
ranks;  and  in  a  word,  it  is  too  often  only  from 
attic  windows,  or  here  and  there  at  a  crossing, 
that  you  can  get  a  look  beyond  the  city  upon 
its  diversified  surroundings.  But  perhaps  it  is 
all  the  more  surprising,  to  come  suddenly  on  a 
corner,  and  see  a  perspective  of  a  mile  or  more  of 
falling  street,  and  beyond  that  woods  and  villas, 
and  a  blue  arm  of  the  sea,  and  the  hills  upon  the 
farther  side. 

Fergusson,  our  Edinburgh  poet,  Burns's  model, 
once  saw  a  butterfly  at 'the  Town  Cross;  and 
the  sight  inspired  him  with  a  worthless  little 
ode.  This  painted  countryman,  the  dandy  of 
the  rose  garden,  looked  far  abroad  in  such  a 
humming  neighbourhood;  and  you  can  fancy 
what  moral  considerations  a  youthful  poet  would 
supply.  But  the  incident,  in  a  fanciful  sort  of 
way,  is  characteristic  of  the  place.  Into  no 
other  city  does  the  sight  of  the  country  enter  so 
far;  if  you  do  not  meet  a  butterfly,  you  shall 
certainly  catch  a  glimpse  of  far-away  trees  upon 
your  walk;  and  the  place  is  full  of  theatre  tricks 
in  the  way  of  scenery.  You  peep  under  an 
arch,  you  descend  stairs  that  look  as  if  they 

419 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

would  land  you  in  a  cellar,  you  turn  to  the 
back-window  of  a  grimy  tenement  in  a  lane:— 
and  behold!  you  are  face-to-face  with  distant 
and  bright  prospects.  You  turn  a  corner,  and 
there  is  the  sun  going  down  into  the  Highland 
hills.  You  look  down  an  alley,  and  see  ships 
tacking  for  the  Baltic. 

For  the  country  people  to  see  Edinburgh  on 
her  hill-tops,  is  one  thing;  it  is  another  for  the 
citizen,  from  the  thick  of  his  affairs,  to  overlook 
the  country.  It  should  be  a  genial  and  amelio- 
rating influence  in  life;  it  should  prompt  good 
thoughts  and  remind  him  of  Nature's  uncon- 
cern: that  he  can  watch  from  day  to  day,  as  he 
trots  officeward,  how  the  Spring  green  brightens 
in  the  wood  or  the  field  grows  black  under  a 
moving  ploughshare.  I  have  been  tempted, 
in  this  connection,  to  deplore  the  slender  faculties 
of  the  human  race,  with  its  penny-whistle  of  a 
voice,  its  dull  ears,  and  its  narrow  range  of 
sight.  If  you  could  see  as  people  are  to  see  in 
heaven,  if  you  had  eyes  such  as  you  can  fancy 
for  a  superior  race,  if  you  could  take  clear  note 
of  the  objects  of  vision,  not  only  a  few  yards, 
but  a  few  miles  from  where  you  stand: — think 
how  agreeably  your  sight  would  be  entertained, 
how  pleasantly  your  thoughts  would  be  diversi- 
fied, as  you  walked  the  Edinburgh  streets !  For 
you  might  pause,  in  some  business  perplexity,  in 
the  midst  of  the  city  traffic,  and  perhaps  catch 
the  eye  of  a  shepherd  as  he  sat  down  to  breathe 

420 


NEW  TOWN:  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

upon  a  heathery  shoulder  of  the  Pentlands;  or 
perhaps  some  urchin,  clambering  in  a  country 
elm,  would  put  aside  the  leaves  and  show  you 
his  flushed  and  rustic  visage;  or  a  fisher  racing 
seawards,  with  the  tiller  under  his  elbow,  and 
the  sail  sounding  in  the  wind,  would  fling  you 
a  salutation  from  between  Anst'er  and  the  May. 
To  be  old  is  not  the  same  thing  as  to  be  pic- 
turesque; nor  because  the  Old  Town  bears  a 
strange  physiognomy,  does  it  at  all  follow  that 
the  New  Town  shall  look  commonplace.  Indeed, 
apart  from  antique  houses,  it  is  curious  how 
much  description  would  apply  commonly  to 
either.  The  same  sudden  accidents  of  ground,  a 
similar  dominating  site  above  the  plain,  and  the 
same  superposition  of  one  rank  of  society  over 
another,  are  to  be  observed  in  both.  Thus,  the 
broad  and  comely  approach  to  Princes  Street 
from  the  east,  lined  with  hotels  and  public 
offices,  makes  a  leap  over  the  gorge  of  the  Low 
Calton;  if  you  cast  a  glance  over  the  parapet, 
you  look  direct  into  that  sunless  and  disreputa- 
ble confluent  of  Leith  Street;  and  the  same  tall 
houses  open  upon  both  thoroughfares.  This 
is  only  the  New  Town  passing  overhead  above 
its  own  cellars;  walking,  so  to  speak,  over  its 
own  children,  as  is  the  way  of  cities  and  the 
human  race,  but  at  the  Dean  Bridge,  you  may  be- 
hold a  spectacle  of  a  more  novel  order.  The 
river  runs  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  valley,  among 
rocks  and  between  gardens;  the  crest  of  either 

421 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

bank  is  occupied  by  some  of  the  most  commodi- 
ous streets  and  crescents  in  the  modern  city ;  and 
a  handsome  bridge  unites  the  two  summits. 
Over  this,  every  afternoon,  private  carriages 
go  spinning  by,  and  ladies  with  card-cases  pass 
to  and  fro  about  the  duties  of  society.  And 
yet  down  below  you  may  still  see,  with  its  mills 
and  foaming  weir,  the  little  rural  village  of  Dean. 
Modern  improvement  has  gone  overhead  on  its 
high  level  viaduct;  and  the  extended  city  has 
cleanly  overleapt,  and  left  unaltered,  what  was 
once  the  summer  retreat  of  its  comfortable 
citizens.  Every  town  embraces  hamlets  in  its 
growth;  Edinburgh  herself  has  embraced  a  good 
few;  but  it  is  strange  to  see  one  still  surviving— 
and  to  see  it  some  hundreds  of  feet  below  your 
path.  Is  it  Torre  del  Greco  that  is  built  above 
buried  Herculaneum?  Herculaneum  was  dead 
at  least;  but  the  sun  still  shines  upon  the  roofs 
of  Dean;  the  smoke  still  rises  thriftily  from  its 
chimneys;  the  dusty  miller  comes  to  his  door, 
looks  at  the  gurgling  water,  hearkens  to  the 
turning  wheel  and  the  birds  about  the  shed,  and 
perhaps  whistles  an  air  of  his  own  to  enrich 
the  symphony — for  all  the  world  as  if  Edin- 
burgh were  still  the  old  Edinburgh  on  the  Castle 
Hill,  and  Dean  were  still  the  quietest  of  hamlets 
buried  a  mile  or  so  in  the  green  country. 

It  is  not  so  long  ago  since  magisterial  David 
Hume  lent  the  authority  of  his  example  to  the 
exodus  from  the  Old  Town,  and  took  up  his  new 

422 


NEW  TOWN:  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

abode  in  a  street  which  is  still  (so  oddly  may  a 
jest  become  perpetuated) known  as  Saint  David 
Street.  Nor  is  the  town  so  large  but  a  holiday 
schoolboy  may  harry  a  bird's  nest  within  half  a 
mile  of  his  own  door.  There  are  places  that  still 
smell  of  the  plough  in  memory's  nostrils.  Here, 
one  had  heard  a  blackbird  on  a  hawthorn;  there, 
another  was  taken  on  summer  evenings  to  eat 
strawberries  and  cream;  and  you  have  seen  a 
waving  wheatfield  on  the  site  of  your  present 
residence.  The  memories  of  an  Edinburgh  boy 
are  but  partly  memories  of  the  town.  I  look 
back  with  delight  on  many  an  escalade  of  garden 
walls;  many  a  ramble  among  lilacs  full  of  piping 
birds;  many  an  exploration  in  obscure  quarters 
that  were  neither  town  nor  country;  and  I  think 
that  both  for  my  companions  and  myself,  there 
was  a  special  interest,  a  point  of  romance,  and 
a  sentiment  as  of  foreign  travel,  when  we  hit  in 
our  excursions  on  the  butt  end  of  some  former 
hamlet,  and  found  a  few  rustic  cottages  im- 
bedded among  streets  and  squares.  The  tunnel 
to  the  Scotland  Street  Station,  the  sight  of  the 
trains  shooting  out  of  its  dark  maw  with  the 
two  guards  upon  the  brake,  the  thought  of  its 
length  and  the  many  ponderous  edifices  and  open 
thoroughfares  above,  were  certainly  things  of 
paramount  impressiveness  to  a  young  mind. 
It  was  a  subterranean  passage,  although  of  a 
larger  bore  than  we  were  accustomed  to  in 
Ainsworth's  novels;  and  these  two  words,  "sub- 

423 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

terranean  passage,"  were  in  themselves  an  ir- 
resistible attraction,  and  seemed  to  bring  us 
nearer  in  spirit  to  the  heroes  we  loved  and  the 
black  rascals  we  secretly  aspired  to  imitate. 
To  scale  the  Castle  Rock  from  West  Princes 
Street  Gardens,  and  lay  a  triumphal  hand  against 
the  rampart  itself,  was  to  taste  a  high  order  of 
romantic  pleasure.  And  there  are  other  sights 
and  exploits  which  crowd  back  upon  my  mind 
under  a  very  strong  illumination  of  remembered 
pleasure.  Rut  the  effect  of  not  one  of  them  all 
will  compare  with  the  discoverer's  joy,  and  the 
sense  of  old  Time  and  his  slow  changes  on  the 
face  of  this  earth,  with  which  I  explored  such 
corners  as  Cannonmills  or  Water  Lane,  or  the 
nugget  of  cottages  at  Rroughton  Market.  They 
were  more  rural  than  the  open  country,  and  gave 
a  greater  impression  of  antiquity  than  the  oldest 
land  upon  the  High  Street.  They  too,  like 
Fergusson's  butterfly,  had  a  quaint  air  of  having 
wandered  far  from  their  own  place;  they  looked 
abashed  and  homely,  with  their  gables  and  their 
creeping  plants,  their  outside  stairs  and  running 
mill-streams;  they  were  corners  that  smelt  like 
the  end  of  the  country  garden  where  I  spent  my 
Aprils;  and  the  people  stood  to  gossip  at  their 
doors,  as  they  might  have  done  in  Colinton 
or  Cramond. 

In  a  great  measure  we  may,  and  shall,  eradi- 
cate this  haunting  flavour  of  the  country.  The 
last  elm  is  dead  in  Elm  Row;  and  the  villas 

424 


NEW  TOWN:  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

and  the  workmen's  quarters  spread  apace  on 
all  the  borders  of  the  city.  We  can  cut  down 
the  trees;  we  can  bury  the  grass  under  dead 
paving-stones ;  we  can  drive  brisk  streets  through 
all  our  sleepy  quarters;  and  we  may  forget 
the  stories  and  the  playgrounds  of  our  boyhood. 
But  we  have  some  possessions  that  not  even 
the  infuriate  zeal  of  builders  can  utterly  abolish 
and  destroy.  Nothing  can  abolish  the  hills, 
unless  it  be  a  cataclysm  of  nature  which  shall 
subvert  Edinburgh  Castle  itself  and  lay  all  her 
florid  structures  in  the  dust.  And  as  long  as 
we  have  the  hills  and  the  Firth,  we  have  a  famous 
heritage  to  leave  our  children.  Our  windows, 
at  no  expense  to  us,  are  mostly  artfully  stained 
to  represent  a  landscape.  And  when  the  Spring 
comes  round,  and  the  hawthorn  begins  to 
flower,  and  the  meadows  to  smell  of  young  grass, 
even  in  the  thickest  of  our  streets,  the  country 
hill-tops  find  out  a  young  man's  eyes,  and  set  his 
heart  beating  for  travel  and  pure  air. 


425 


VII 
THE  VILLA  QUARTERS 

MR.  RUSKIN'S  denunciation  of  the  New 
Town  of  Edinburgh  includes,  as  I  have 
heard  it  repeated,  nearly  all  the  stone  and  lime 
we  have  to  show.  Many  however  find  a  grand 
air  and  something  settled  and  imposing  in  the 
better  parts ;  and  upon  many,  as  I  have  said,  the 
confusion  of  styles  induces  an  agreeable  stimula- 
tion of  the  mind.  But  upon  the  subject  of  our 
recent  villa  architecture,  I  am  frankly  ready  to 
mingle  my  tears  with  Mr.  Ruskin's,  and  it  is  a 
subject  which  makes  one  envious  of  his  large 
declamatory  and  controversial  eloquence. 

Day  by  day,  one  new  villa,  one  new  object 
of  offence,  is  added  to  another ;  all  around  New- 
ington  and  Morningside,  the  dismallest  struc- 
tures keep  springing  up  like  mushrooms;  the 
pleasant  hills  are  loaded  with  them,  each  im- 
pudently squatted  in  its  garden,  each  roofed  and 
carrying  chimneys  like  a  house.  And  yet  a 
glance  of  an  eye  discovers  their  true  character. 
They  are  not  houses ;  for  they  were  not  designed 
with  a  view  to  human  habitation,  and  the  inter- 

426 


THE  VILLA  QUARTERS 

nal  arrangements  are,  as  they  tell  me,  fantastic- 
ally unsuited  to  the  needs  of  man.  They  are 
not  buildings;  for  you  can  scarcely  say  a  thing 
is  built  where  every  measurement  is  in  clamant 
disproportion  with  its  neighbour.  They  belong 
to  no  style  of  art,  only  to  a  form  of  business  much 
to  be  regretted. 

Why  should  it  be  cheaper  to  erect  a  structure 
where  the  size  of  the  windows  bears  no  rational 
relation  to  the  size  of  the  front?  Is  there  any 
profit  in  a  misplaced  chimney-stalk?  Does  a 
hard-working,  greedy  builder  gain  more  on  a 
monstrosity  than  on  a  decent  cottage  of  equal 
plainness?  Frankly  we  should  say,  No.  Bricks 
may  be  omitted,  and  green  timber  employed, 
in  the  construction  of  even  a  very  elegant  design; 
and  there  is  no  reason  why  a  chimney  should 
be  made  to  vent,  because  it  is  so  situated  as  to 
look  comely  from  without.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  a  noble  way  of  being  ugly :  a  high-aspiring 
fiasco  like  the  fall  of  Lucifer.  There  are  daring 
and  gaudy  buildings  that  manage  to  be  offensive, 
without  being  contemptible;  and  we  know  that 
"fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."  But 
to  aim  at  making  a  commonplace  villa,  and  to 
make  it  insufferably  ugly  in  each  particular; 
to  attempt  the  homeliest  achievement  and  to 
attain  the  bottom  of  derided  failure;  not  to  have 
any  theory  but  profit  and  yet,  at  an  equal  ex- 
pense, to  outstrip  all  competitors  in  the  art  of 
conceiving  and  rendering  permanent  deformity; 

427 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

and  to  do  all  this  in  what  is,  by  nature,  one  of 
the  most  agreeable  neighbourhoods  in  Britain : — 
what  are  we  to  say,  but  that  this  also  is  a  dis- 
tinction, hard  to  earn,  although  not  greatly 
worshipful? 

Indifferent  buildings  give  pain  to  the  sensitive ; 
but  these  things  offend  the  plainest  taste.  It  is 
a  danger  which  threatens  the  amenity  of  the 
town;  and  as  this  eruption  keeps  spreading  on 
our  borders,  we  have  ever  the  farther  to  walk 
among  unpleasant  sights,  before  we  gain  the 
country  air.  If  the  population  of  Edinburgh 
were  a  living,  autonomous  body,  it  would  arise 
like  one  man  and  make  night  hideous  with  arson ; 
the  builders  and  their  accomplices  would  be 
driven  to  work,  like  the  Jews  of  yore,  with  the 
trowel  in  one  hand  and  the  defensive  cutlass 
in  the  other ;  and  as  soon  as  one  of  these  masonic 
wonders  had  been  consummated,  right-minded 
iconoclasts  should  fall  thereon  and  make  an 
end  of  it  at  once. 

Possibly  these  words  may  meet  the  eye  of  a 
builder  or  two.  It  is  no  use  asking  them  to 
employ  an  architect ;  for  that  would  be  to  touch 
them  in  a  delicate  quarter,  and  its  use  would 
largely  depend  on  what  architect  they  were 
minded  to  call  in.  But  let  them  get  any  archi- 
tect in  the  world  to  point  out  any  reasonably 
well-proportioned  villa,  not  his  own  design; 
and  let  them  reproduce  that  model  to  satiety. 


428 


VIII 
THE  CALTON  HILL 

THE  east  of  new  Edinburgh  is  guarded  by  a 
craggy  hill,  of  no  great  elevation,  which 
the  town  embraces.  The  old  London  road  runs 
on  one  side  of  it;  while  the  New  Approach, 
leaving  it  on  the  other  hand,  completes  the 
circuit.  You  mount  by  stairs  in  a  cutting  of 
the  rock  to  find  yourself  in  a  field  of  monuments. 
Dugald  Stewart  has  the  honours  of  situation 
and  architecture;  Burns  is  memorialised  lower 
down  upon  a  spur;  Lord  Nelson,  as  befits  a  sailor, 
gives  his  name  to  the  topgallant  of  the  Calton 
Hill.  This  latter  erection  has  been  differently 
and  yet,  in  both  cases,  aptly  compared  to  a 
telescope  and  a  butter-churn ;  comparisons  apart, 
it  ranks  among  the  vilest  of  men's  handiworks. 
But  the  chief  feature  is  an  unfinished  range  of 
columns,  "the  Modern  Ruin"  as  it  has  been 
called,  an  imposing  object  from  far  and  near,  and 
giving  Edinburgh,  even  from  the  sea,  that  false 
air  of  a  Modern  Athens  which  has  earned  for  her 
so  many  slighting  speeches.  It  was  meant  to 
be  a  National  Monument;  and  its  present  state 

429 


NOTES   ON  EDINBURGH 

is  a  very  suitable  monument  to  certain  national 
characteristics.  The  old  Observatory — a  quaint 
brown  building  on  the  edge  of  the  steep — and 
the  new  Observatory — a  classical  edifice  with 
a  dome — occupy  the  central  portion  of  the  sum- 
mit. All  these  are  scattered  on  a  green  turf, 
browsed  over  by  some  sheep. 

The  scene  suggests  reflections  on  fame  and 
on  man's  injustice  to  the  dead.  You  see  Dugald 
Stewart  rather  more  handsomely  commemorated 
than  Burns.  Immediately  below,  in  the  Canon- 
gate  churchyard,  lies  Robert  Fergusson,  Burns's 
master  in  his  art,  who  died  insane  while  yet  a 
stripling;  and  if  Dugald  Stewart  has  been  some- 
what too  boisterously  acclaimed,  the  Edinburgh 
poet,  on  the  other  hand,  is  most  unrighteously 
forgotten.  The  votaries  of  Burns,  a  crew  too 
common  in  all  ranks  in  Scotland  and  more  re- 
markable for  number  than  discretion,  eagerly 
suppress  all  mention  of  the  lad  who  handed  to 
him  the  poetic  impulse  and,  up  to  the  time  when 
he  grew  famous,  continued  to  influence  him  in 
his  manner  and  the  choice  of  subjects.  Burns 
himself  not  only  acknowledged  his  debt  in  a 
fragment  of  autobiography,  but  erected  a  tomb 
over  the  grave  in  Canongate  churchyard.  This 
was  worthy  of  an  artist,  but  it  was  done  in  vain ; 
and  although  I  think  I  have  read  nearly  all  the 
biographies  of  Burns,  I  cannot  remember  one  in 
which  the  modesty  of  nature  was  not  violated, 
or  where  Fergusson  was  not  sacrificed  to  the 

430 


THE  CALTON  HILL 

credit  of  his  follower's  originality.  There  is  a 
kind  of  gaping  admiration  that  would  fain  roll 
Shakespeare  and  Bacon  into  one,  to  have  a  big- 
ger thing  to  gape  at;  and  a  class  of  men  who 
cannot  edit  one  author  without  disparaging  all 
others.  They  are  indeed  mistaken  if  they  think 
to  please  the  great  originals;  and  whoever  puts 
Fergusson  right  with  fame,  cannot  do  better 
than  dedicate  his  labours  to  the  memory  of 
Burns,  who  will  be  the  best  delighted  of  the  dead. 

Of  all  places  for  a  view,  this  Calton  Hill  is 
perhaps  the  best;  since  you  can  see  the  Castle, 
which  you  lose  from  the  Castle,  and  Arthur's 
Seat,  which  you  cannot  see  from  Arthur's  Seat. 
It  is  the  place  to  stroll  on  one  of  those  days  of 
sunshine  and  east  wind  which  are  so  common 
in  our  more  than  temperate  summer.  The 
breeze  comes  off  the  sea,  with  a  little  of  the 
freshness,  and  that  touch  of  chill,  peculiar  to 
the  quarter,  which  is  delightful  to  certain  very 
ruddy  organisations  and  greatly  the  reverse  to 
the  majority  of  mankind.  It  brings  with  it  a 
faint,  floating  haze,  a  cunning  decolouriser,  al- 
though not  thick  enough  to  obscure  outlines 
near  at  hand.  But  the  haze  lies  more  thickly 
to  windward  at  the  far  end  of  Musselburgh  Bay ; 
and  over  the  Links  of  Aberlady  and  Berwick 
Law  and  the  hump  of  the  Bass  Rock  it  assumes 
the  aspect  of  a  bank  of  thin  sea  fog. 

Immediately  underneath  upon  the  south,  you 
command  the  yards  of  the  High  School,  and  the 

431 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

towers  and  courts  of  the  new  Jail — a  large  place, 
castellated  to  the  extent  of  folly,  standing  by 
itself  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  cliff,  and  often 
joyfully  hailed  by  tourists  as  the  Castle.  In  the 
one,  you  may  perhaps  see  female  prisoners  tak- 
ing exercise  like  a  string  of  nuns;  in  the  other, 
schoolboys  running  at  play  and  their  shadows 
keeping  step  with  them.  From  the  bottom  of  the 
valley,  a  gigantic  chimney  rises  almost  to  the  level 
of  the  eye,  a  taller  and  a  shapelier  edifice  than  Nel- 
son's Monument.  Look  a  little  farther,  and 
there  is  Holyrood  Palace,  with  its  Gothic  frontal 
and  ruined  abbey,  and  the  red  sentry  pacing 
smartly  to  and  fro  before  the  door  Like  a  mechan- 
ical figure  in  a  panorama.  By  way  of  an  out- 
post, you  can  single  out  the  little  peak-roofed 
lodge,  over  which  Bizzio's  murderers  made  their 
escape  and  where  Queen  Mary  herself,  according 
to  gossip,  bathed  in  white  wine  to  entertain 
her  loveliness.  Behind  and  overhead,  lie  the 
Queen's  Park,  from  Muschat's  Cairn  to  Dum- 
biedykes,  St.  Margaret's  Loch,  and  the  long  wall 
of  Salisbury  Crags;  and  thence,  by  knoll  and 
rocky  bulwark  and  precipitous  slope,  the  eye 
rises  to  the  top  of  Arthur's  Seat,  a  hill  for  magni- 
tude, a  mountain  in  virtue  of  its  bold  design. 
This  upon  your  left.  Upon  the  right,  the  roofs 
and  spires  of  the  Old  Town  climb  one  above 
another  to  where  the  citadel  prints  its  broad 
bulk  and  jagged  crown  of  bastions  on  the  western 
sky.  Perhaps  it  is  now  one  in  the  afternoon; 

432 


THE  CALTON  HILL 

and  at  the  same  instant  of  time,  a  ball  rises 
to  the  summit  of  Nelson's  flagstaff  close  at  hand, 
and,  far  away,  a  puff  of  smoke  followed  by  a 
report  bursts  from  the  half-moon  battery  at  the 
Castle.  This  is  the  time-gun  by  which  people 
set  their  watches,  as  far  as  the  sea  coast  or  in 
hill  farms  upon  the  Pentlands.  To  complete 
the  view,  the  eye  enfilades  Princes  Street,  black 
with  traffic,  and  has  a  broad  look  over  the  valley 
between  the  Old  Town  and  the  New:  here,  full 
of  railway  trains  and  stepped  over  by  the  high 
North  Bridge  upon  its  many  columns,  and  there, 
green  with  trees  and  gardens. 

On  the  north,  the  Calton  Hill  is  neither  so 
abrupt  in  itself  nor  has  it  so  exceptional  an  out- 
look; and  yet  even  here  it  commands  a  striking 
prospect.  A  gully  separates  it  from  the  New 
Town.  This  is  Greenside,  where  witches  were 
burned  and  tournaments  held  in  former  days. 
Down  that  almost  precipitous  bank,  Bothwell 
launched  his  horse,  and  so  first,  as  they  say, 
attracted  the  bright  eyes  of  Mary.  It  is  now 
tessellated  with  sheets  and  blankets  out  to  dry, 
and  the  sound  of  people  beating  carpets  is  rarely 
absent.  Beyond  all  this,  the  suburbs  run  out 
to  Leith;  Leith  camps  on  the  seaside  with  her 
forest  of  masts;  Leith  roads  are  full  of  ships  at 
anchor;  the  sun  picks  out  the  white  pharos  upon 
Inchkeith  Island;  the  Firth  extends  on  either 
hand  from  the  Ferry  to  the  May;  the  towns 
of  Fifeshire  sit,  each  in  its  bank  of  blowing 

433 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

smoke,  along  the  opposite  coast;  and  the  hills 
inclose  the  view,  except  to  the  farthest  east, 
where  the  haze  of  the  horizon  rests  upon  the 
open  sea.  There  lies  the  road  to  Norway:  a 
dear  road  for  Sir  Patrick  Spens  and  his  Scots 
Lords;  and  yonder  smoke  on  the  hither  side  of 
Largo  Law  is  Aberdour,  from  whence  they  sailed 
to  seek  a  queen  for  Scotland. 

"0  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladies  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hands, 
Or  ere  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  land!" 

The  sight  of  the  sea,  even  from  a  city,  will 
bring  thoughts  of  storm  and  sea  disaster.  The 
sailors'  wives  of  Leith  and  the  fisherwomen  of 
Cockenzie,  not  sitting  languorously  with  fans 
but  crowding  to  the  tail  of  the  harbour  with  a 
shawl  about  their  ears,  may  still  look  vainly 
for  brave  Scotsmen  who  will  return  no  more,  or 
boats  that  have  gone  on  their  last  fishing.  Since 
Sir  Patrick  sailed  from  Aberdour,  what  a  multi- 
tude have  gone  down  in  the  North  Sea  I  Yonder 
is  Auldhame,  where  the  London  smack  went 
ashore  and  wreckers  cut  the  rings  from  ladies' 
fingers;  and  a  few  miles  round  Fife  Ness  is  the 
fatal  Inchcape,  now  a  star  of  guidance;  and  the 
lee  shore  to  the  east  of  the  Inchcape,  is  that  For- 
farshire  coast  where  Mucklebackit  sorrowed 
for  his  son. 

These  are  the  main  features  of  the  scene 
434 


THE  CALTON  HILL 

roughly  sketched.  How  they  are  all  tilted  by 
the  inclination  of  the  ground,  how  each  stands 
out  in  delicate  relief  against  the  rest,  what 
manifold  detail,  and  play  of  sun  and  shadow,  ani- 
mate and  accentuate  the  picture,  is  a  matter 
for  a  person  on  the  spot,  and  turning  swiftly  on 
his  heels,  to  grasp  and  bind  together  in  one 
comprehensive  look.  It  is  the  character  of  such 
a  prospect,  to  be  full  of  change  and  of  things 
moving.  The  multiplicity  embarrasses  the  eye ; 
and  the  mind,  among  so  much,  suffers  itself  to 
grow  absorbed  with  single  points.  You  remark 
a  tree  in  a  hedgerow,  or  follow  a  cart  along  a 
country  road.  You  turn  to  the  city,  and  see 
children,  dwarfed  by  distance  into  pigmies,  at 
play  about  suburban  doorsteps;  you  have  a 
glimpse  upon  a  thoroughfare  where  people  are 
densely  moving;  you  note  ridge  after  ridge  of 
chimney-stacks  running  downhill  one  behind 
another,  and  church  spires  rising  bravely  from 
the  sea  of  roofs.  At  one  of  the  innumerable 
windows,  you  watch  a  figure  moving;  on  one 
of  the  multitude  of  roofs,  you  watch  clambering 
chimney-sweeps.  The  wind  takes  a  run  and 
scatters  the  smoke;  bells  are  heard,  far  and 
near,  faint  and  loud,  to  tell  the  hour;  or  perhaps 
a  bird  goes  dipping  evenly  over  the  housetops, 
like  a  gull  across  the  waves.  And  here  you  are 
in  the  meantime,  on  this  pastoral  hillside,  among 
nibbling  sheep  and  looked  upon  by  monumental 
buildings. 

435 


NOTES  ON  ED.INBURGH 

Return  thither  on  some  clear,  dark,  moonless 
night,  with  a  ring  of  frost  in  the  air,  and  only  a 
star  or  two  set  sparsely  in  the  vault  of  heaven; 
and  you  will  find  a  sight  as  stimulating  as  the 
hoariest  summit  of  the  Alps.  The  solitude  seems 
perfect;  the  patient  astronomer,  flat  on  his  back 
under  the  Observatory  dome  and  spying  heaven's 
secrets,  is  your  only  neighbour;  and  yet  from 
all  round  you  there  come  up  the  dull  hum  of  the 
city,  the  tramp  of  countless  people  marching 
out  of  time,  the  rattle  of  carriages  and  the  con- 
tinuous keen  jingle  of  the  tramway  bells.  An 
hour  or  so  before,  the  gas  was  turned  on;  lamp- 
lighters scoured  the  city;  in  every  house,  from 
kitchen  to  attic,  the  windows  kindled  and 
gleamed  forth  into  the  dusk.  And  so  now,  al- 
though the  town  lies  blue  and  darkling  on  her 
hills,  innumerable  spots  of  the  bright  element 
shine  far  and  near  along  the  pavements  and 
upon  the  high  fagades.  Moving  lights  of  the 
railway  pass  and  repass  below  the  stationary 
lights  upon  the  bridge.  Lights  burn  in  the  Jail. 
Lights  burn  high  up  in  the  tall  lands  and  on  the 
Castle  turrets,  they  burn  low  down  in  Greenside 
or  along  the  Park.  They  run  out  one  beyond 
the  other  into  the  dark  country.  They  walk 
in  a  procession  down  to  Leith,  and  shine  singly 
far  along  Leith  Pier.  Thus,  the  plan  of  the 
city  and  her  suburbs  is  mapped  out  upon  the 
ground  of  blackness,  as  when  a  child  pricks  a 
drawing  full  of  pinholes  and  exposes  it  before  a 

436 


THE  CALTON  HILL 

candle ;  not  the  darkest  night  of  winter  can  con- 
ceal her  high  station  and  fanciful  design;  every 
evening  in  the  year  she  proceeds  to  illuminate 
herself  in  honour  of  her  own  beauty;  and  as  if 
to  complete  the  scheme — or  rather  as  if  some 
prodigal  Pharaoh  were  beginning  to  extend  to 
the  adjacent  sea  and  country — half  way  over 
to  Fife,  there  is  an  outpost  of  light  upon  Inch- 
keith,  and  far  to  seaward,  yet  another  on  the 
May. 

And  while  you  are  looking,  across  upon  the 
Castle  Hill,  the  drums  and  bugles  begin  to  recall 
the  scattered  garrison;  the  air  thrills  with  the 
sound;  the  bugles  sing  aloud;  and  the  last  rising 
flourish  mounts  and  melts  into  the  darkness 
like  a  star:  a  martial  swan-song,  fitly  rounding 
in  the  labours  of  the  day. 


437 


r  I^HE  Scots  dialect  is  singularly  rich  in 
A  terms  of  reproach  against  the  winter  wind. 
Snell,  blae,  nirly,  and  scowthering,  are  four  of 
these  significant  vocables;  they  are  all  words  that 
carry  a  shiver  with  them,  and  for  my  part  as  I 
see  them  aligned  before  me  on  the  page,  I  am 
persuaded  that  a  big  wind  comes  tearing  over 
the  Firth  from  Burntisland  and  the  northern 
hills;  I  think  I  can  hear  it  howl  in  the  chimney, 
and  as  I  set  my  face  northwards,  feel  its  smarting 
kisses  on  my  cheek.  Even  in  the  names  of 
places  there  is  often  a  desolate,  inhospitable 
sound ;  and  I  remember  two  from  the  near  neigh- 
bourhood of  Edinburgh,  Cauldhame  and  Blaw- 
weary,  that  would  promise  but  starving  comfort 
to  their  inhabitants.  The  inclemency  of  heaven, 
which  has  thus  endowed  the  language  of  Scot- 
land with  words,  has  also  largely  modified  the 
spirit  of  its  poetry.  Both  poverty  and  a  north- 
ern climate  teach  men  the  love  of  the  hearth 
and  the  sentiment  of  the  family ;  and  the  latter, 
in  its  own  right,  inclines  a  poet  to  the  praise  of 

438 


WINTER  AND  NEW   YEAR 

strong  waters.  In  Scotland,  all  our  singers  have 
a  stave  or  two  for  blazing  fires  and  stout  pota- 
tions:— to  get  indoors  out  of  the  wind  and  to 
swallow  something  hot  to  the  stomach,  are  bene- 
fits so  easily  appreciated  where  they  dwelt  I 

And  this  is  not  only  so  in  country  districts 
where  the  shepherd  must  wade  in  the  snow  all 
day  after  his  flock,  but  in  Edinburgh  itself,  and 
nowhere  more  apparently  stated  than  in  the 
works  of  our  Edinburgh  poet,  Fergusson.  He 
was  a  delicate  youth,  I  take  it,  and  willingly 
slunk  from  the  robustious  winter  to  an  inn  fire- 
side. Love  was  absent  from  his  life,  or  only 
present,  if  you  prefer,  in  such  a  form  that  even 
the  least  serious  of  Burns's  amourettes  was  en- 
nobling by  comparison;  and  so  there  is  nothing 
to  temper  the  sentiment  of  indoor  revelry  which 
pervades  the  poor  boy's  verses.  Although  it  is 
characteristic  of  his  native  town,  and  the  man- 
ners of  its  youth  to  the  present  day,  this  spirit 
has  perhaps  done  something  to  restrict  his 
popularity.  He  recalls  a  supper-party  pleasan- 
try with  something  akin  to  tenderness;  and 
sounds  the  praises  of  the  act  of  drinking  as  if  it 
were  virtuous,  or  at  least  witty,  in  itself.  The 
kindly  jar,  the  warm  atmosphere  of  tavern 
parlours,  and  the  revelry  of  lawyers'  clerks,  do 
not  offer  by  themselves  the  materials  of  a  rich 
existence.  It  was  not  choice,  so  much  as  an 
external  fate,  that  kept  Fergusson  in  this  round 
of  sordid  pleasures.  A  Scot  of  poetic  tempera- 

439 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

ment,  and  without  religious  exaltation,  drops 
as  if  by  nature  into  the  public-house.  The 
picture  may  not  be  pleasing;  but  what  else  is 
a  man  to  do  in  this  dog's  weather? 

To  none  but  those  who  have  themselves  suf- 
fered the  thing  in  the  body,  can  the  gloom  and 
depression  of  our  Edinburgh  winter  be  brought 
home.  For  some  constitutions  there  is  some- 
thing almost  physically  disgusting  in  the  bleak 
ugliness  of  easterly  weather;  the  wind  wearies, 
the  sickly  sky  depresses  them;  and  they  turn 
back  from  their  walk  to  avoid  the  aspect  of  the 
unrefulgent  sun  going  down  among  perturbed 
and  pallid  mists.  The  days  are  so  short  that  a 
man  does  much  of  his  business,  and  certainly 
all  his  pleasure,  by  the  haggard  glare  of  gas 
lamps.  The  roads  are  as  heavy  as  a  fallow. 
People  go  by,  so  drenched  and  draggle-tailed 
that  I  have  often  wondered  how  they  found  the 
heart  to  undress.  And  meantime  the  wind 
whistles  through  the  town  as  if  it  were  an  open 
meadow;  and  if  you  lie  awake  all  night,  you  hear 
it  shrieking  and  raving  overhead  with  a  noise  of 
shipwrecks  and  of  falling  houses.  In  a  word, 
life  is  so  unsightly  that  there  are  times  when 
the  heart  turns  sick  in  a  man's  inside;  and  the 
look  of  a  tavern,  or  the  thought  of  the  warm, 
fire-lit  study,  is  like  the  touch  of  land  to  one  who 
has  been  long  struggling  with  the  seas. 

As  the  weather  hardens  towards  frost,  the 
world  begins  to  improve  for  Edinburgh  people. 

440 


WINTER  AND  NEW  YEAR 

We  enjoy  superb,  sub-arctic  sunsets,  with  the 
profile  of  the  city  stamped  in  indigo  upon  a  sky 
of  luminous  green.  The  wind  may  still  be  cold, 
but  there  is  a  briskness  in  the  air  that  stirs  good 
blood.  People  do  not  all  look  equally  sour  and 
downcast.  They  fall  into  two  divisions:  one, 
the  knight  of  the  blue  face  and  hollow  paunch, 
whom  Winter  has  gotten  by  the  vitals ;  the  other 
well  lined  with  New-year's  fare,  conscious  of  the 
touch  of  cold  on  his  periphery,  but  stepping 
through  it  by  the  glow  of  his  internal  fires. 
Such  an  one  I  remember,  triply  cased  in  grease, 
whom  no  extremity  of  temperature  could  van- 
quish. "Well,"  would  be  his  jovial  salutation, 
"here's  a  sneezer!"  And  the  look  of  these 
warm  fellows  is  tonic,  and  upholds  their  drooping 
fellow-townsmen.  There  is  yet  another  class 
who  do  not  depend  on  corporal  advantages, 
but  support  the  winter  in  virtue  of  a  brave  and 
merry  heart.  One  shivering  evening,  cold  enough 
for  frost  but  with  too  high  a  wind,  and  a 
little  past  sundown,  when  the  lamps  were  be- 
ginning to  enlarge  their  circles  in  the  growing 
dusk,  a  brace  of  barefoot  lassies  were  seen  com- 
ing eastward  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind.  If  the 
one  was  as  much  as  nine,  the  other  was  certainly 
not  more  than  seven.  They  were  miserably 
clad;  and  the  pavement  was  so  cold,  you  would 
have  thought  no  one  could  lay  a  naked  foot  on 
it  unflinching.  Yet  they  came  along  waltzing, 
if  you  please,  while  the  elder  sang  a  tune  to  give 

441 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

them  music.  The  person  who  saw  this,  and 
•whose  heart  was  full  of  bitterness  at  the  mo- 
ment, pocketed  a  reproof  which  has  been  of  use 
to  him  ever  since,  and  which  he  now  hands  on 
with  his  good  wishes,  to  the  reader. 

At  length,  Edinburgh,  with  her  satellite  hills 
and  ah1  the  sloping  country,  is  sheeted  up  in 
white.  If  it  has  happened  in  the  dark  hours, 
nurses  pluck  their  children  out  of  bed  and  run 
with  them  to  some  commanding  window,  whence 
they  may  see  the  change  that  has  been  worked 
upon  earth's  face.  "A*  the  hills  are  covered 
wi'  snaw,"  they  sing,  "and  Winter's  noo  come 
fairly!"  And  the  children,  marvelling  at  the 
silence  and  the  white  landscape,  find  a  spell 
appropriate  to  the  season  in  the  words.  The 
reverberation  of  the  snow  increases  the  pale 
daylight,  and  brings  all  objects  nearer  the  eye. 
The  Pentlands  are  smooth  and  glittering,  with 
here  and  there  the  black  ribbon  of  a  dry-stone 
dyke,  and  here  and  there,  if  there  be  wind,  a 
cloud  of  blowing  snow  upon  a  shoulder.  The 
Firth  seems  a  leaden  creek,  that  a  man  might 
almost  jump  across,  between  well-powdered 
Lothian  and  well-powdered  Fife.  And  the  effect 
is  not,  as  in  other  cities,  a  thing  of  half  a  day ; 
the  streets  are  soon  trodden  black,  but  the  coun- 
try keeps  its  virgin  white;  and  you  have  only 
to  lift  your  eyes  and  look  over  miles  of  country 
snow.  An  indescribable  cheerfulness  breathes 
about  the  city;  and  the  well-fed  heart  sits  lightly 

442 


WINTER  AND  NEW  YEAR 

and  beats  gaily  in  the  bosom.  It  is  New-year's 
weather. 

New-year's  Day,  the  great  national  festival, 
is  a  time  of  family  expansions  and  of  deep 
carousal.  Sometimes,  by  a  sore  stroke  of  fate 
for  this  Calvinistic  people,  the  year's  anniver- 
sary falls  upon  a  Sunday,  when  the  public- 
houses  are  inexorably  closed,  when  singing  and 
even  whistling  is  banished  from  our  homes  and 
highways,  and  the  oldest  toper  feels  called  upon 
to  go  to  church.  Thus  pulled  about,  as  if  be- 
tween two  loyalties,  the  Scots  have  to  decide 
many  nice  cases  of  conscience,  and  ride  the 
marches  narrowly  between  the  weekly  and 
the  annual  observance.  A  party  of  convivial 
musicians,  next  door  to  a  friend  of  mine,  hung 
suspended  in  this  manner  on  the  brink  of  their 
diversions.  From  ten  o'clock  on  Sunday  night, 
my  friend  heard  them  tuning  their  instruments; 
and  as  the  hour  of  liberty  drew  near,  each  must 
have  had  his  music  open,  his  bow  in  readiness 
across  the  fiddle,  his  foot  already  raised  to  mark 
the  time,  and  his  nerves  braced  for  execution; 
for  hardly  had  the  twelfth  stroke  sounded  from 
the  earliest  steeple,  before  they  had  launched 
forth  into  a  secular  bravura. 

Currant-loaf  is  now  popular  eating  in  all 
households.  For  weeks  before  the  great  morn- 
ing, confectioners  display  stacks  of  Scots  bun — 
a  dense,  black  substance,  inimical  to  life — and 
full  moons  of  shortbread  adorned  with  mottoes 

443 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

of  peel  or  sugar-plum,  in  honour  of  the  season 
and  the  family  affections.  "  Frae  Auld  Reekie," 
"A  guid  New  Year  to  ye  a',"  "For  the  Auld 
Folk  at  Hame,"  are  among  the  most  favoured 
of  these  devices.  Can  you  not  see  the  carrier, 
after  half-a-day's  journey  on  pinching  hill-roads, 
draw  up  before  a  cottage  in  Teviotdale,  or  per- 
haps in  Manor  Glen  among  the  rowans,  and 
the  old  people  receiving  the  parcel  with  moist 
eyes  and  a  prayer  for  Jock  or  Jean  in  the  city? 
For  at  this  season,  on  the  threshold  of  another 
year  of  calamity  and  stubborn  conflict,  men  feel 
a  need  to  draw  closer  the  links  that  unite  them; 
they  reckon  the  number  of  their  friends,  like 
allies  before  a  war;  and  the  prayers  grow  longer 
in  the  morning  as  the  absent  are  recommended 
by  name  into  God's  keeping. 

On  the  day  itself,  the  shops  are  all  shut  as 
on  a  Sunday;  only  taverns,  toyshops,  and  other 
holiday  magazines,  keep  open  doors.  Every 
one  looks  for  his  handsel.  The  postmen  and  the 
lamplighters  have  left,  at  every  house  in  their 
districts,  a  copy  of  vernacular  verses,  asking 
and  thanking  in  a  breath;  and  it  is  characteristic 
of  Scotland  that  these  verses  may  have  some- 
times a  touch  of  reality  in  detail  or  sentiment 
and  a  measure  of  strength  in  the  handling. 
All  over  the  town,  you  may  see  comforter'd 
schoolboys  hasting  to  squander  their  half-crowns. 
There  are  an  infinity  of  visits  to  be  paid;  all 
the  world  is  in  the  street,  except  the  daintier 

444 


WINTER  AND  NEW  YEAR 

classes;  the  sacramental  greeting  is  heard  upon 
all  sides;  Auld  Lang  Syne  is  much  in  people's 
mouths;  and  whisky  and  shortbread  are  staple 
articles  of  consumption.  From  an  early  hour 
a  stranger  will  be  impressed  by  the  number  of 
drunken  men;  and  by  afternoon  drunkenness 
has  spread  to  the  women.  With  some  classes 
of  society,  it  is  as  much  a  matter  of  duty  to 
drink  hard  on  New-year's  Day  as  to  go  to  church 
on  Sunday.  Some  have  been  saving  their  wages 
for  perhaps  a  month  to  do  the  season  honour. 
Many  carry  a  whisky-bottle  in  their  pocket, 
which  they  will  press  with  embarrassing  effusion 
on  a  perfect  stranger.  It  is  not  expedient  to  risk 
one's  body  in  a  cab,  or  not,  at  least,  until  after 
a  prolonged  study  of  the  driver.  The  streets, 
which  are  thronged  from  end  to  end,  become  a 
place  for  delicate  pilotage.  Singly  or  arm-in-arm, 
some  speechless,  others  noisy  and  quarrelsome, 
the  votaries  of  the  New  Year  go  meandering 
in  and  out  and  cannoning  one  against  another; 
and  now  and  again,  one  falls  and  lies  as  he 
has  fallen.  Refore  night,  so  many  have  gone 
to  bed  or  the  police  office,  that  the  streets 
seem  almost  clearer.  And  as  guisards  and  first- 
footers  are  now  not  much  seen  except  in  country 
places,  when  once  the  New  Year  has  been  rung 
in  and  proclaimed  at  the  Tron  railings,  the 
festivities  begin  to  find  their  way  in-doors  and 
something  like  quiet  returns  upon  the  town. 
Rut  think,  in  these  piled  lands,  of  all  the  sense- 

445 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

less  snorers,  all  the  broken  heads  and  empty 
pockets ! 

Of  old,  Edinburgh  University  was  the  scene 
of  heroic  snowballing;  and  one  riot  obtained 
the  epic  honours  of  military  intervention.  But 
the  great  generation,  I  am  afraid,  is  at  an  end; 
and  even  during  my  own  college  days,  the  spirit 
appreciably  declined.  Skating  and  sliding,  on 
the  other  hand,  are  honoured  more  and  more; 
and  curling,  being  a  creature  of  the  national 
genius,  is  little  likely  to  be  disregarded.  The 
patriotism  that  leads  a  man  to  eat  Scots  bun 
will  scarce  desert  him  at  the  curling-pond. 
Edinburgh,  with  its  long,  steep  pavements,  is 
the  proper  home  of  sliders ;  many  a  happy  urchin 
can  slide  the  whole  way  to  school;  and  the  pro- 
fession of  errand-boy  is  transformed  into  a  holi- 
day amusement.  As  for  skating,  there  is  scarce 
any  city  so  handsomely  provided.  Dudding- 
ston  Loch  lies  under  the  abrupt  southern  side 
of  Arthur's  Seat;  in  summer,  a  shield  of  blue, 
with  swans  sailing  from  the  reeds;  in  winter,  a 
field  of  ringing  ice.  The  village  church  sits 
above  it  on  a  green  promontory ;  and  the  village 
smoke  rises  from  among  goodly  trees.  At  the 
church  gates,  is  the  historical  jougs,  a  place  of 
penance  for  the  neck  of  detected  sinners,  and  the 
historical  louping-on  stane,  from  which  Dutch- 
built  lairds  and  farmers  climbed  into  the  saddle. 
Here  Prince  Charlie  slept  before  the  battle  of 
Prestonpans;  and  here  Deacon  Brodie,  or  one 

446 


WINTER  AND  NEW  YEAR 

of  his  gang,  stole  a  plough  coulter  before  the 
burglary  in  Chessel's  Court.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  loch,  the  ground  rises  to  Craigmillar 
Castle,  a  place  friendly  to  Stuart  Mariolaters. 
It  is  worth  a  climb,  even  in  summer,  to  look  down 
upon  the  loch  from  Arthur's  Seat;  but  it  is  ten- 
fold more  so  on  a  day  of  skating.  The  surface 
is  thick  with  people  moving  easily  and  swiftly 
and  leaning  over  at  a  thousand  graceful  inclina- 
tions; the  crowd  opens  and  closes,  and  keeps 
moving  through  itself  like  water;  and  the  ice 
rings  to  half  a  mile  away,  with  the  flying  steel. 
As  night  draws  on,  the  single  figures  melt  into 
the  dusk,  until  only  an  obscure  stir  and  coming 
and  going  of  black  clusters,  is  visible  upon  the 
loch.  A  little  longer,  and  the  first  torch  is 
kindled  and  begins  to  flit  rapidly  across  the  ice 
in  a  ring  of  yellow  reflection,  and  this  is  followed 
by  another  and  another,  until  the  whole  field 
is  full  of  skimming  lights. 


447 


X 

TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

ON  three  sides  of  Edinburgh,  the  country 
slopes  downward  from  the  city,  here  to  the 
sea,  there  to  the  fat  farms  of  Haddington,  there 
to  the  mineral  fields  of  Linlithgow.  On  the 
south  alone,  it  keeps  rising  until  it  not  only 
out-tops  the  Castle  but  looks  down  on  Arthur's 
Seat.  The  character  of  the  neighbourhood  is 
pretty  strongly  marked  by  a  scarcity  of  hedges ; 
by  many  stone  walls  of  varying  height;  by  a 
fair  amount  of  timber,  some  of  it  well  grown, 
but  apt  to  be  of  a  bushy,  northern  profile  and 
poor  in  foliage;  by  here  and  there  a  little  river, 
Esk  or  Leith  or  Almond,  busily  journeying  in 
the  bottom  of  its  glen;  and  from  almost  every 
point,  by  a  peep  of  the  sea  or  the  hills.  There  is 
no  lack  of  variety,  and  yet  most  of  the  elements 
are  common  to  all  parts;  and  the  southern 
district  is  alone  distinguished  by  considerable 
summits  and  a  wide  view. 

From  Boroughmuirhead,  where  the  Scottish 
army  encamped  before  Flodden,  the  road  de- 
scends a  long  hill,  at  the  bottom  of  which  and 

448 


TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

just  as  it  is  preparing  to  mount  upon  the  other 
side,  it  passes  a  toll-bar  and  issues  at  once  into 
the  open  country.  Even  as  I  write  these  words, 
they  are  being  antiquated  in  the  progress  of 
events,  and  the  chisels  are  tinkling  on  a  new  row 
of  houses.  The  builders  have  at  length  adven- 
tured beyond  the  toll  which  held  them  in  respect 
so  long,  and  proceed  to  career  in  these  fresh 
pastures  like  a  herd  of  colts  turned  loose.  As 
Lord  Beaconsfield  proposed  to  hang  an  architect 
by  way  of  stimulation,  a  man,  looking  on  these 
doomed  meads,  imagines  a  similar  example  to 
deter  the  builders;  for  it  seems  as  if  it  must 
come  to  an  open  fight  at  last  to  preserve  a  corner 
of  green  country  unbedevilled.  And  here,  ap- 
propriately enough,  there  stood  in  old  days 
a  crow-haunted  gibbet,  with  two  bodies  hanged 
in  chains.  I  used  to  be  shown,  when  a  child, 
a  flat  stone  in  the  roadway  to  which  the  gibbet 
had  been  fixed.  People  of  a  willing  fancy  were 
persuaded,  and  sought  to  persuade  others,  that 
this  stone  was  never  dry.  And  no  wonder,  they 
would  add,  for  the  two  men  had  only  stolen 
fourpence  between  them. 

For  about  two  miles  the  road  climbs  upwards, 
a  long  hot  walk  in  summer  time.  You  reach 
the  summit  at  a  place  where  four  ways  meet, 
beside  the  toll  of  Fairmilehead.  The  spot  is 
breezy  and  agreeable  both  in  name  and  aspect. 
The  hills  are  close  by  across  a  valley:  Kirk 
Yetton,  with  its  long,  upright  scars  visible  as  far 

449 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

as  Fife,  and  Allennuir  the  tallest  on  this  side: 
with  wood  and  tilled  field  running  high  upon 
their  borders,  and  haunches  ah1  moulded  into 
innumerable  glens  and  shelvings  and  variegated 
with  heather  and  fern.  The  air  comes  briskly 
and  sweetly  off  the  hills,  pure  from  the  elevation 
and  rustically  scented  by  the  upland  plants; 
and  even  at  the  toll,  you  may  hear  the  curlew 
calling  on  its  mate.  At  certain  seasons,  when 
the  gulls  desert  their  surfy  forelands,  the  birds 
of  sea  and  mountain  hunt  and  scream  together 
in  the  same  field  at  Fainnilehead.  The  winged, 
wild  things  intermix  their  wheelings,  the  sea-birds 
skim  the  tree-tops  and  fish  among  the  furrows 
of  the  plough.  These  little  craft  of  air  are  at 
home  in  all  the  world,  so  long  as  they  cruise  in 
their  own  element;  and  like  sailors,  ask  but  food 
and  water  from  the  shores  they  coast. 

Below,  over  a  stream,  the  road  passes  Bow 
Bridge,  now  a  dairy-farm,  but  once  a  distillery 
of  whisky.  It  chanced,  some  time  in  the  past 
century,  that  the  distiller  was  on  terms  of  good- 
fellowship  with  the  visiting  officer  of  excise. 
The  latter  was  of  an  easy,  friendly  disposition 
and  a  master  of  convivial  arts.  Now  and 
again,  he  had  to  walk  out  of  Edinburgh  to  meas- 
ure the  distiller's  stock;  and  although  it  was 
agreeable  to  find  his  business  lead  him  in  a 
friend's  direction,  it  was  unfortunate  that  the 
friend  should  be  a  loser  by  his  visits.  Accord- 
ingly, when  he  got  about  the  level  of  Fairmile- 

450 


TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

head,  the  ganger  would  take  his  flute,  without 
which  he  never  travelled,  from  his  pocket,  fit 
it  together,  and  set  manfully  to  playing,  as  if 
for  his  own  delectation  and  inspired  by  the 
beauty  of  the  scene.  His  favourite  air,  it  seems, 
was  "Over  the  hills  and  far  away."  At  the 
first  note,  the  distiller  pricked  his  ears.  A  flute 
at  Fairmilehead?  and  playing  "Over  the  hills 
and  far  away?"  This  must  be  his  friendly 
enemy,  the  gauger.  Instantly,  horses  were  har- 
nessed, and  sundry  barrels  of  whisky  were  got 
upon  a  cart,  driven  at  a  gallop  round  Hill-end, 
and  buried  in  the  mossy  glen  behind  Kirk 
Yetton.  In  the  same  breath,  you  may  be  sure, 
a  fat  fowl  was  put  to  the  fire,  and  the  whitest 
napery  prepared  for  the  back  parlour.  A  little 
after,  the  gauger,  having  had  his  fill  of  music 
for  the  moment,  came  strolling  down  with  the 
most  innocent  air  imaginable,  and  found  the 
good  people  at  Bow  Bridge  taken  entirely  un- 
awares by  his  arrival,  but  none  the  less  glad  to 
see  him.  The  distiller's  liquor  and  the  ganger's 
flute  would  combine  to  speed  the  moments  of 
digestion ;  and  when  both  were  somewhat  mellow, 
they  would  wind  up  the  evening  with  "Over 
the  hills  and  far  away"  to  an  accompaniment  of 
knowing  glances.  And  at  least,  there  is  a  smug- 
gling story,  with  original  and  half-idyllic  feat- 
ures. 

A  little  farther,  the  road  to  the  right  passes 
an  upright  stone  in  a  field.     The  country  people 

451 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

call  it  General  Kay's  monument.  According 
to  them,  an  officer  of  that  name  had  perished 
there  in  battle  at  some  indistinct  period  before 
the  beginning  of  history.  The  date  is  reassuring ; 
for  I  think  cautious  writers  are  silent  on  the 
General's  exploits.  But  the  stone  is  connected 
with  one  of  those  remarkable  tenures  of  land 
which  linger  on  into  the  modern  world  from 
Feudalism.  Whenever  the  reigning  sovereign 
passes  by,  a  certain  landed  proprietor  is  held 
bound  to  climb  on  to  the  top,  trumpet  in  hand, 
and  sound  a  flourish  according  to  the  measure 
of  his  knowledge  in  that  art.  Happily  for  a 
respectable  family,  crowned  heads  have  no 
great  business  in  the  Pentland  Hills.  But  the 
story  lends  a  character  of  comicality  to  the  stone; 
and  the  passer-by  will  sometimes  chuckle  to 
himself. 

The  district  is  dear  to  the  superstitious. 
Hard  by,  at  the  back-gate  of  Comiston,  a  be- 
lated carter  beheld  a  lady  in  white,  "with  the 
most  beautiful,  clear  shoes  upon  her  feet,"  who 
looked  upon  him  in  a  very  ghastly  manner 
and  then  vanished;  and  just  in  front  is  the  Hunt- 
ers' Tryst,  once  a  roadside  inn,  and  not  so  long 
ago  haunted  by  the  devil  in  person.  Satan  led 
the  inhabitants  a  pitiful  existence.  He  shook 
the  four  corners  of  the  building  with  lamentable 
outcries,  beat  at  the  doors  and  windows,  over- 
threw crockery  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  danced  unholy  dances  on  the  roof. 

452 


TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

Every  kind  of  spiritual  disinfectant  was  put  in 
requisition;  chosen  ministers  were  summoned 
out  of  Edinburgh  and  prayed  by  the  hour;  pious 
neighbours  sat  up  all  night  making  a  noise  of 
psalmody ;  but  Satan  minded  them  no  more  than 
the  wind  about  the  hill-tops;  and  it  was  only 
after  years  of  persecution,  that  he  left  the  Hun- 
ters' Tryst  in  peace  to  occupy  himself  with  the 
remainder  of  mankind.  What  with  General 
Kay,  and  the  white  lady,  and  this  singular  visita- 
tion, the  neighbourhood  offers  great  facilities 
to  the  makers  of  sun-myths;  and  without  exactly 
casting  in  one's  lot  with  that  disenchanting 
school  of  writers,  one  cannot  help  hearing  a 
good  deal  of  the  winter  wind  in  the  last  story. 
"That  nicht,"  says  Burns,  in  one  of  his  happiest 
moments, — 

"That  nicht  a  child  might  understand 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand." 

And  if  people  sit  up  all  night  in  lone  places  on 
the  hills,  with  Bibles  and  tremulous  psalms, 
they  will  be  apt  to  hear  some  of  the  most  fiendish 
noises  in  the  world:  the  wind  will  beat  on  doors 
and  dance  upon  roofs  for  them,  and  make  the 
hills  howl  around  their  cottage  with  a  clamour 
like  the  Judgment  Day. 

The  road  goes  down  through  another  valley, 
and  then  finally  begins  to  scale  the  main  slope 
of  the  Pentlands.  A  bouquet  of  old  trees  stands 
round  a  white  farmhouse;  and  from  a  neighbour- 

453 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

ing  dell,  you  can  see  smoke  rising  and  leaves 
ruffling  in  the  breeze.  Straight  above,  the 
hills  climb  a  thousand  feet  into  the  air.  The 
neighbourhood,  about  the  time  of  lambs,  is 
clamorous  with  the  bleating  of  flocks;  and  you 
will  be  awakened,  in  the  grey  of  early  summer 
mornings,  by  the  barking  of  a  dog  or  the  voice 
of  a  shepherd  shouting  to  the  echoes.  This, 
with  the  hamlet  lying  behind  unseen,  is  Swanston. 
The  place  in  the  dell  is  immediately  connected 
with  the  city.  Long  ago,  this  sheltered  field 
was  purchased  by  the  Edinburgh  magistrates 
for  the  sake  of  the  springs  that  rise  or  gather 
there.  After  they  had  built  their  water-house 
and  laid  their  pipes,  it  occurred  to  them  that 
the  place  was  suitable  for  junketing.  Once 
entertained,  with  jovial  magistrates  and  public 
funds,  the  idea  led  speedily  to  accomplishment; 
and  Edinburgh  could  soon  boast  of  a  municipal 
Pleasure  House.  The  dell  was  turned  into  a 
garden;  and  on  the  knoll  that  shelters  it  from 
the  plain  and  the  sea  winds,  they  built  a  cottage 
looking  to  the  hills.  They  brought  crockets 
and  gargoyles  from  old  St.  Giles's  which  they 
were  then  restoring,  and  disposed  them  on  the 
gables  and  over  the  door  and  about  the  garden; 
and  the  quarry  which  had  supplied  them  with 
building  material,  they  draped  with  clematis 
and  carpeted  with  beds  of  roses.  So  much  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  eye;  for  creature  comfort, 
they  made  a  capacious  cellar  in  the  hillside  and 

454 


TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

fitted  it  with  bins  of  the  hewn  stone.  In  process 
of  time,  the  trees  grew  higher  and  gave  shade 
to  the  cottage,  and  the  evergreens  sprang  up 
and  turned  the  dell  into  a  thicket.  There,  pur- 
ple magistrates  relaxed  themselves  from  the  pur- 
suit of  municipal  ambition;  cocked  hats  paraded 
soberly  about  the  garden  and  in  and  out  among 
the  hollies;  authoritative  canes  drew  ciphering 
upon  the  path;  and  at  night,  from  high  upon  the 
hills,  a  shepherd  saw  lighted  windows  through 
the  foliage  and  heard  the  voice  of  city  dignitaries 
raised  in  song. 

The  farm  is  older.  It  was  first  a  grange  of 
Whitekirk  Abbey,  tilled  and  inhabited  by  rosy 
friars.  Thence,  after  the  Reformation,  it  passed 
into  the  hands  of  a  true-blue  Protestant  family. 
During  the  Covenanting  troubles,  when  a  night 
conventicle  was  held  upon  the  Pentlands,  the 
farm  doors  stood  hospitably  open  till  the  morn- 
ing; the  dresser  was  laden  with  cheese  and 
bannocks,  milk  and  brandy;  and  the  worshippers 
kept  slipping  down  from  the  hill  between  two 
exercises,  as  couples  visit  the  supper-room  be- 
tween two  dances  of  a  modern  ball.  In  the 
Forty-Five,  some  foraging  Highlanders  from 
Prince  Charlie's  army  fell  upon  Swanston  in 
the  dawn.  The  great-grandfather  of  the  late 
farmer  was  then  a  little  child;  him  they  awak- 
ened by  plucking  the  blankets  from  his  bed, 
and  he  remembered,  when  he  was  an  old  man, 
their  truculent  looks  and  uncouth  speech.  The 

455 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

churn  stood  full  of  cream  in  the  dairy,  and  with 
this  they  made  their  brose  in  high  delight.  "  It 
was  braw  brose,"  said  one  of  them.  At  last, 
they  made  off,  laden  like  camels  with  their  booty ; 
and  Swanston  Farm  has  lain  out  of  the  way  of 
history  from  that  time  forward.  I  do  not  know 
what  may  be  yet  in  store  for  it.  On  dark  days, 
when  the  mist  runs  low  upon  the  hill,  the  house 
has  a  gloomy  air  as  if  suitable  for  private  trag- 
edy. But  in  hot  July,  you  can  fancy  nothing 
more  perfect  than  the  garden,  laid  out  in  alleys 
and  arbours  and  bright,  old-fashioned  flower- 
plots,  and  ending  in  a  miniature  ravine,  all 
trellis-work  and  moss  and  tinkling  waterfall, 
and  housed  from  the  sun  under  fathoms  of 
broad  foliage. 

The  hamlet  behind  is  one  of  the  least  consider- 
able of  hamlets,  and  consists  of  a  few  cottages 
on  a  green  beside  a  burn.  Some  of  them  (a 
strange  thing  in  Scotland)  are  models  of  internal 
neatness;  the  beds  adorned  with  patchwork, 
the  shelves  arrayed  with  willow-pattern  plates, 
the  floors  and  tables  bright  with  scrubbing  or 
pipeclay,  and  the  very  kettle  polished  like  silver. 
It  is  the  sign  of  a  contented  old  age  in  country 
places,  where  there  is  little  matter  for  gossip 
and  no  street  sights.  Housework  becomes  an 
art;  and  at  evening,  when  the  cottage  interior 
shines  and  twinkles  in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  the 
housewife  folds  her  hands  and  contemplates 
her  finished  picture;  the  snow  and  the  wind 

456 


TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

may  do  their  worst,  she  has  made  herself  a 
pleasant  corner  in  the  world.  The  city  might 
be  a  thousand  miles  away:  and  yet  it  was  from 
close  by  that  Mr.  Bough  painted  the  distant 
view  of  Edinburgh  which  has  been  engraved 
for  this  collection:  and  you  have  only  to  look 
at  the  cut,  to  see  how  near  it  is  at  hand.  But 
hills  and  hill  people  are  not  easily  sophisticated; 
and  if  you  walk  out  here  on  a  summer  Sunday, 
it  is  as  like  as  not  the  shepherd  may  set  his  dogs 
upon  you.  But  keep  an  unmoved  countenance ; 
they  look  formidable  at  the  charge,  but  their 
hearts  are  in  the  right  place;  and  they  will  only 
bark  and  sprawl  about  you  on  the  grass,  un- 
mindful of  their  master's  excitations. 

Kirk  Yetton  forms  the  north-eastern  angle  of 
the  range;  thence,  the  Pentlands  trend  off  to 
south  and  west.  From  the  summit  you  look 
over  a  great  expanse  of  champaign  sloping  to 
the  sea  and  behold  a  large  variety  of  distant  hills. 
There  are  the  hills  of  Fife,  the  hills  of  Peebles, 
the  Lammermoors  and  the  Ochils,  more  or  less 
mountainous  in  outline,  more  or  less  blue  with 
distance.  Of  the  Pentlands  themselves,  you 
see  a  field  of  wild  heathery  peaks  with  a  pond 
gleaming  in  the  midst;  and  to  that  side  the  view 
is  as  desolate  as  if  you  were  looking  into  Gallo- 
way or  Applecross.  To  turn  to  the  other,  is 
like  a  piece  of  travel.  Far  out  in  the  lowlands 
Edinburgh  shows  herself,  making  a  great  smoke 
on  clear  days  and  spreading  her  suburbs  about 

457 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

her  for  miles ;  the  Castle  rises  darkly  in  the  midst ; 
and  close  by,  Arthur's  Seat  makes  a  bold  figure  in 
the  landscape.  All  around,  cultivated  fields,  and 
woods,  and  smoking  villages,  and  white  country 
roads,  diversify  the  uneven  surface  of  the  land. 
Trains  crawl  slowly  abroad  upon  the  railway 
lines;  little  ships  are  tacking  in  the  Firth;  the 
shadow  of  a  mountainous  cloud,  as  large  as  a 
parish,  travels  before  the  wind;  the  wind  itself 
ruffles  the  wood  and  standing  corn,  and  sends 
pulses  of  varying  colour  across  the  landscape.  So 
you  sit,  like  Jupiter  upon  Olympus,  and  look  down 
from  afar  upon  men's  life.  The  city  is  as  silent  as 
a  city  of  the  dead :  from  all  its  humming  thorough- 
fares, not  a  voice,  not  a  footfall,  reaches  you  upon 
the  hill.  The  sea  surf,  the  cries  of  ploughmen, 
the  streams  and  the  mill-wheels,  the  birds  and 
the  wind,  keep  up  an  animated  concert  through 
the  plain;  from  farm  to  farm,  dogs,  and  crowing 
cocks  contend  together  in  defiance;  and  yet 
from  this  Olympian  station,  except  for  the 
whispering  rumour  of  a  train,  the  world  has  fallen 
into  a  dead  silence  and  the  business  of  town  and 
country  grown  voiceless  in  your  ears.  A  crying 
hill-bird,  the  bleat  of  a  sheep,  a  wind  singing 
in  the  dry  grass,  seem  not  so  much  to  interrupt, 
as  to  accompany,  the  stillness;  but  to  the  spirit- 
ual ear,  the  whole  scene  makes  a  music  at  once 
human  and  rural,  and  discourses  pleasant  reflec- 
tions on  the  destiny  of  man.  The  spiry  habita- 
ble city,  ships,  the  divided  fields,  and  browsing 

458 


TO  THE  PENTLAND  HILLS 

herds,  and  the  straight  highways,  tell  visibly 
of  man's  active  and  comfortable  ways ;  and  you 
may  be  never  so  laggard  and  never  so  unim- 
pressionable, but  there  is  something  in  the  view 
that  spirits  up  your  blood  and  puts  you  in  the 
vein  for  cheerful  labour. 

Immediately  below  is  Fairmilehead,  a  spot 
of  roof  and  a  smoking  chimney,  where  two  roads, 
no  thicker  than  packthread,  intersect  beside  a 
hanging  wood.  If  you  are  fanciful,  you  will  be 
reminded  of  the  ganger  in  the  story.  And  the 
thought  of  this  old  exciseman,  who  once  lipped 
and  fingered  on  his  pipe  and  uttered  clear  notes 
from  it  in  the  mountain  air,  and  the  words  of  the 
song  he  affected,  carry  your  mind  "Over  the 
hills  and  far  away"  to  distant  countries;  and 
you  have  a  vision  of  Edinburgh  not,  as  you  see 
her,  in  the  midst  of  a  little  neighbourhood,  but 
as  a  boss  upon  the  round  world  with  all  Europe 
and  the  deep  sea  for  her  surroundings.  For 
every  place  is  a  centre  to  the  earth,  whence  high- 
ways radiate  or  ships  set  sail  for  foreign  ports; 
the  limit  of  a  parish  is  not  more  imaginary  than 
the  frontier  of  an  empire;  and  as  a  man  sitting 
at  home  in  his  cabinet  and  swiftly  writing  books, 
so  a  city  sends  abroad  an  influence  and  a  portrait 
of  herself.  There  is  no  Edinburgh  emigrant, 
far  or  near,  from  China  to  Peru,  but  he  or  she 
carries  some  lively  pictures  of  the  mind,  some 
sunset  behind  the  Castle  cliffs,  some  snow  scene, 
some  maze  of  city  lamps,  indelible  in  the  memory 

459 


NOTES  ON  EDINBURGH 

and  delightful  to  study  in  the  intervals  of  toil. 
For  any  such,  if  this  book  fall  in  their  way,  here 
are  a  few  more  home  pictures.  It  would  be 
pleasant,  if  they  should  recognise  a  house  where 
they  had  dwelt,  or  a  walk  that  they  had  taken. 


460 


•.', ;  i ' -'i"   iv-v^'Ar-i   Crp\av1    j^ij 


